


No Ordinary Love - Quarantine Chronicles

by FikFreak



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-05
Updated: 2020-05-17
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:28:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 31,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23486080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FikFreak/pseuds/FikFreak
Summary: This is what might be a series of short one shots based on my no ZA/AU fic No Ordinary Love. It's all Richonne of course, but focuses on how Michonne and Rick and their big family deal with being quarantined together.
Relationships: Rick Grimes & Michonne
Comments: 3
Kudos: 4





	1. Chapter 1 - Rick

No Ordinary Love – Quarantine Chronicles

Rick – Week 1

“Yes, Chonne, I know!”

“But, Rick...”

“Nah...don’t Rick me, woman.”

Cooing, her voice soft, breathy, Michonne pleads, “Come on, baby, you know it’s the right thing to do.”

“Ahhh...shit! Maybe I don’t care.” I mumble through a cloud of lust, my grip on her hips getting tighter.

“But you do.”

“But maybe I don’t. I just...Oh fuck...”

“I know. But it is the right thing to do. And you always do the right thing.” Michonne whispers in that sugary sweet tone of hers, while she winds and drops her hips. “That’s why I love you.”

Sighing, I have to exhale an exasperated breath. This woman knows how to get to me, and with her hands flat on my chest, looking down at me with her dark eyes, blinking her long lashes at me while she rides me, she knows how to bend me to her will. Right now, I would do any fucking thing she asked me to do if she keeps grinding her ass down on me like that. How could I not? Even on this cool early March day in Georgia, where the wind is still delivering a breeze through our open bedroom windows, our bodies are fused together, sweaty and sticky from our lovemaking. 

Michonne is gently caressing my face now, her elegant fingers sifting through the hairs on my face, as her hair blankets around us just before she drops her face to mine and kisses me. Her tongue dancing across mine, her lips nipping and sucking. All while keeping up a slow, sinful pace, a sensuous back and forth just before she whimpers softly that she’s coming. I can feel her warm body tense, muscles tighten beneath her beautiful skin. Her orgasm is strong, whipping through her with rhythmic pulsing, a carnal theft of her last bit of strength. Increasingly, her canal is spasming, drenching me in her essence as she moans into my mouth. 

I swallow every single one of her pleasurable cries. Taking them in, savoring the tiny moans that fall from her sexy lips as I grab a handful of her ass, and hold her steady to push up into her. Thrusting, digging the heels of my feet into the bed, I hold her right where I want her, and explode inside of my wife as my growls of pleasure create a satisfied chorus among her dwindling mewls. 

Wrapping her limp form into a solid hug against my chest, I’m intent on maintaining our connection. I don’t even want to leave from inside of her. It’s my favorite place on earth. Warm, soft, wet. We’ve been together so much that her womanhood curves perfectly to the fit of my dick. 

Snuggling her face underneath my chin, Michonne mumbles softly, her full lips puckering with the movement, causing my cock to stiffen again at the simple thought of the decadent things she can do with them. 

“We have to let him stay, Rick. His parents are still in Europe and he’s too young to be alone. The news is too sketchy on when they will be allowed back into the country. It’s bad in Spain.”

Lifting her face to mine with a nudge from my index finger, I kiss her forehead and grudgingly agree. “I know, Chonne. You’re right.” 

Grinning up at me, she narrows her soulful eyes for a moment as though she’s checking to make sure that I’m actually giving in so easily. “Really?” 

“Really. Just gotta make sure there’s some rules to this.”

Raising her eyebrows high, nearly meeting her hairline, she responds, “Rules?”

“Yeah, rules.”

“Little late for that though right? He’s practically lived with us for the last eleven years.”

“It’s different now though, Chonne. You can’t tell me that you haven’t noticed.”

“Noticed what exactly?”

“Cameron is seventeen. I don’t want him getting any ideas about Judith.”

Forming her lips into an ‘o’ Michonne nods, clearly understanding what I’m getting at. “Oh that. Well, Rick...she’s-”

“Too damn young for that shit.” 

Playing with my hair, turning and twisting the curls through her fingers, Michonne seems to be taking her time, thinking, before she speaks again. “She’s like me, Rick. Cameron is like you. It’s...”

Lifting to rest my back on the sturdy wood headboard, I keep my wife anchored in my lap, as I tilt my head to try and study her face in the dim darkness of our bedroom. “What are you talking about, Chonne?” Attempting to ease from my lap, to steal her heat from me, even as I’ve already fallen from her depths, Michonne tries to push against my hold and scoot back. I’m not having that. Using both arms, I band them around those curvy hips of hers, and hold her still right where I want her. She wiggles in my lap, and the fleshy stickiness of the lips of her womanhood cover my cock, and almost steal my train of thought as I momentarily close my eyes and savor the feel of her. “No, sit still. Come here and tell me what you’re talking about.” I chuckle, realizing that she’s trying to avoid getting into a discussion that she was adamant to have not even ten minutes before. 

Michonne doesn’t follow orders well though, doesn’t even pretend to move her lips and answer me. Petulantly she drops her head backwards, and crosses her arms over her breasts. Now why would she go and do that? She knows I love her breasts. Pulling at her arms to unthread them, I decide to use a little of her own medicine on her. 

With her head angled back, I focus my kisses first on her neck, licking and sucking the skin there. Her silky flesh is so sweet with the smell of our lovemaking still perfuming every inch. Sucking harder, I elicit a soft moan from her, punctuated by a slow roll of her head to the side. I know my baby, she likes it. And as she inches her body backward, resting on her palms that are now outstretched behind her on my thighs, I travel my licks and sucks to her breasts, nuzzling my face into the plump cushions. My excitement grows as I’m admiring the beauty of her walnut colored skin. The striking appearance of her large round areolas, a cherry colored chocolate, just a kiss darker than the rest of her. The nub of her nipples, turgid, stiff, even darker still, press into the flatness of my tongue as I lap at her, passion building inside of me, a strong distraction even as I try to coax and prod her. 

With a mouth full of her right nipple, my voice rumbles against the mound, “Tell me what you mean.”

“Rick...”

“Tell me.” Huffing out a staggered breath, Michonne seems to be giving in. Scrunching her pretty face up, she giggles a little, flirty and sweet, sounding every bit the young girl I remember growing up with, fell in love with, and resembling very much our very own young girl who’s sleeping only a few doors down. I’m instantly struck, confronted by the truth of what she’s trying to say. And I don’t like it. Pulling my head back for a second, the visual is nearly fatal, a cold dampening of the fire I was rekindling between us. “What...?”

With a click of her tongue against her teeth, Michonne seems to be taking pity on me, and lifts to graze her fingers over the frown gathering between my eyes. “Baby, you telling me you didn’t notice the similarities? At all?”

“I-”

“Judith is fourteen, Rick. Cameron is seventeen. We were-”

“Not Judith.”

“Yes, Rick. She’s not going to be your baby forever. Just because she still sleeps with that wooby in her bed, doesn’t mean she’s still the same baby girl that couldn’t sleep without it. She’s menstruating-”

Shaking my head, I’m trying to free my mind of the visuals that my wife is trying her best to present to me. Dammit! Not my baby! My only little girl? My precious baby girl? The same little girl who basically lived in my arms, preferring me to carry her than walking until she started first grade. “Nevermind, Chonne, nevermind! I don’t want to talk about this.”

“If Cameron is going to wait this quarantine out here with us, then we need to talk about it.”

Dodging my eyes from the piercing gaze of hers, I try to wrestle with what she’s saying, but I’m dumbstruck. How have I missed this? Yes, Cameron has spent an inordinate amount of time with our family. How could he not? He’s around the same age as our older boys, and with him working on Michonne’s old show, Zombie Slayer, they easily formed a close bond. Cameron kind of just fell in with our tribe of kids. It made sense. And in a family of all boys and only one girl, I suppose it eluded me that he and Judith might have formed a connection as well. 

But now that Michonne has mentioned it to me, the similarities are striking. Too obvious for anyone paying attention to have missed. Michonne was a girl hanging out with all boys, just like Judith. Michonne was a bit of a tomboy until she hit puberty, filling out in a sinful way. Just like Judith. God help me, when I realized my baby girl had breasts back in the winter over Christmas break while we were vacationing on Lanai City, in Hawaii, I almost cried. It was like one day they were just there. Taunting me with the reminder that she’s not a baby any longer.

Seemingly as suddenly as Michonne blossomed into a young woman, her body filling out into fluid curves, showcased by velvety skin kissed by the sun, my own daughter suddenly had boobs. And as she surfed over those two weeks with me and her brothers, her tawny brown skin got a golden undertone, a little something that the young Cameron commented on the moment he saw her when we returned. What was it he said? Ah yes, he said she was glowing. In that moment I agreed. My baby girl did have a beautiful golden glow to her. All of my kids did. From the older boys, with their wild head fulls of dark glossy curls, to RJ with his little round face a slightly lighter ochre of brown, to even the babies. Little chubby balls of cuteness, the twins, the lightest of all of our kids, who Michonne kept mainly under an umbrella and slathered in sunscreen, even had a little of the sun’s kiss in their skin. Hell, even I had tanned. 

But there was something now that I think about it, about the way that Cameron looked at Judith that day he rocked up on our porch, ringing the bell to come over and hang like he always does. Bouncing on his toes in that way he has about himself, as though he’s trying to tame his energy, focus it in the moment, he was stopped in his tracks when he encountered Michonne, Judith and I in the kitchen taking stock of the grocery situation. He almost looked stricken as he rounded the corner and caught sight of my baby girl, laughing with her mother and I at the bareness of our cabinets. The ebullient nature that Michonne said a lot of child actors carry with them, had somehow stalled out in that moment as the only words he could muster upon seeing Judith, were a jumbling of incoherence that somehow equaled a compliment about her glowing. Glowing.

Gotdam it. I’m going to have to kill that boy.

XXXXXX

“Mom! Ma!”

Glancing up from my phone as I read through the details of the government-imposed quarantine, my attention is pulled away by son hollering up the stairs. “Andre, you do not have to yell. Your mother is coming. She’s feeding the babies. She’ll be down in a minute.” I grouse, aggravation at just about everything tainting my mood. Aggravated at the idea of this whole damn quarantine. The pandemic that’s spreading, creating the need for physical and social separation, and if I’m honest, a little anxiety. 

While my grandfather transitioned earlier this year after a nasty fight with pneumonia, Michonne and I still have older parents in their 60s, one of whom is still physically vulnerable given her past issues with cancer. Add into that, two eight-month-old babies, and a rambunctious eleven-year-old with asthma, and it’s just more than we expected to be dealing with right now. I suppose the good thing is that neither of us have jobs that require we be traveling, or even working outside of the home, but it is going to prove difficult to keep all of these kids, including one that I’m determined to keep away from my baby girl, happy and entertained for who knows how long. 

“Ma!”

“Andre, boy did you hear me? I said-”

Raising his thick eyebrows, Andre turns to me as though he’s just now hearing what I’m saying. “Huh?”

“I’m here. Andre, you don’t have to yell in the house.” Michonne softly scolds, her patient tone entering the fray of voices and chatter in the house. 

“I just told him, Chonne.” I agree, hustling up the stairs to meet her on the landing and take hold of one of the babies from her arms. “Your parents are here, in the living room.”

“Oh good. We can get started then.” Smiling up at me, she carefully repositions Boden in her arms, and smoothes her hand over the dark, tight coils of Joseph’s head that is now nestled against my chest. 

“Sorry, Ma.” Andre apologizes, towering over his mother as he drops a quick kiss to her cheek once she descends the stairs, then dashes past us into the living room, nabbing my recliner before I can make it in there. Grinning and snickering my way, gloating, Andre’s mischievousness is going to get him a quick kick to his rear end if he doesn’t move out of my chair. 

Bringing up the rear, and lazily meandering past his mother, head down, probably texting someone, Carl brushes a swath of thick dark curls up and out of his face. “Mom, what’s the family meeting for?” Not waiting for an answer, and never moving his gaze from the glowing screen, Carl plops down on the large sectional next to his grandparents and unfurls his long legs onto the ottoman. Laying his head on his grandmother Vivian’s shoulder, she immediately begins fussing lightly at him about when he’s going to get a haircut. Even though he just shakes his head slowly, denying her pleas to see his handsome face from under all that hair, Michonne’s mother still allows the overgrown boy the indulgence of her nurturing hugs. 

“Well, Carl, we need to go over this news about the quarantine, the pandemic, social distancing.” Michonne answers, swiveling her head left, as she bends and hands Boden over to her father, Raymond, who immediately begins bouncing the baby on his lap. 

“What’s all that, Mama?” RJ questions, with a mouth full of cookies, with he and Ruff both turning towards where Michonne and I stand hip to hip in the entryway to the living room.  
From his spot on the rug, laying flat on his stomach reading a book while Ruff the chocolate lab that we got when Lily passed away a couple of years ago, lays dutifully by his side. As usual. Petting the dog, rubbing his head, RJ has an affection for Ruff that is clear to anyone who pays attention. RJ picked Ruff out of the litter of puppies, all scampering over each other when we went to the shelter to find a new member of our already large family. Immediately RJ saw Ruff, stepping over the other dogs as though he was determined for RJ to notice and pick him instead of all the others. And he did. They have been inseparable ever since, with Michonne breaking her no dogs in the bed rule, and allowing Ruff to sleep with RJ. A rule that once broken, meant that Judith could finally let her black cat, Morpheus, sleep in her room. All of which caused Michonne’s parents to scoff, noting that black folks usually don’t let animals in the bed. 

“There is a virus, like the flu but much much worse, that can easily spread. And, it can make people very sick, maybe kill them if they are sick already, or old.”

“How old?”

Seeing concern twist his little face, I hurriedly try to soothe him over. “Older than your mama and I, buddy.”

“Like Gigi and Grandpa? Gigi always says she’s too old for playing games and stuff.” he asks, gesturing to my in laws on the couch. 

Clearing his throat, my father in law Raymond, who never takes to anyone calling him old, especially when he flexes and points out that he still has all of his hair, responds in that gruff, bass heavy voice of his. “Grandpa isn’t old, RJ. But...yeah. Old. Older maybe. But old.”

Softening her eyes on the confusion still apparent on RJ’s face, Vivian quickly adds, “RJ, your grandpa and I are doctors, so we want you all to listen when we say this is serious. This virus can make you sick, or yes it can make all of your grandparents, who are old get sick. That’s why we need to all stay home, as much as possible, so we don’t get it, and we don’t give it to others. Ok?”

“But, I can still see my girlfriend though right? Cindy said her parents are cancelling their spring break trip, so I can still hang with her while she’s home?” Carl asks, his head still lowered to his phone as his thumbs fly, punching out a message that’s probably going straight to Cindy. 

“No.” I shake my head, keeping the answer brief and to the point. 

Finally, he lifts his head, coming out of the daze his constant texting keeps him in. “What? Dad, why not? We don’t have school. I won’t get to see her!”

“Cindy’s not family, Carl. While school is canceled, and work is canceled, and the world kind of pauses, everyone needs to stay at home.”

Shaking my head, I continue to assert Michonne’s point, “That means girlfriends like Cindy, who are not family, gotta stay at home.” 

Swiveling to turn back towards the center of the room, away from the television, Andre decides to join the discussion. “But Judith’s boyfriend Cameron gets to be here? That doesn’t seem fair.” 

“What?” I’m caught off guard. Did Andre just call Cameron Judith’s boyfriend?

“Exactly! That’s not fair at all, Dad!” Carl joins in.

With Joseph in my arms, his little fingers toying with my face, and me trying to duck and dodge every prod and poke, I can feel my confusion growing. Why isn’t anyone answering my damn question? “Wait, why did you call him Judith’s boyfriend?”

“Isn’t he?” RJ asks, rolling to his side with his head in his upturned palm. Clearly, he’s more interested now that this conversation has taken a less serious turn away from talks of viruses and sickness to whatever is going on with his sister. “He’s here all the time. All the time.” 

“What?!” I ask again, waiting on someone in this room to fill me in. I’m missing something right? Turning towards my wife, I can feel my blood boiling, heating my temper. I hate to be the last person to know anything, and it seems that right now that’s exactly what’s going on.

“Rick, son, it’s just like you and Chonne. Right? Hahaha! Welcome to my world!” Raymond laughs, the mirth in his words bellowing from deep in his diaphragm, booming with delight. “It’s all fun and games until it’s your daughter, ain’t that right, Rick?” he asks, walking past me with Boden still bouncing delightedly in his grandfather’s arms. 

Holding her hands up in a pausing motion, then easing them to my face, Michonne palms my face lovingly. She knows me, and I assume she can tell I’m getting pissed. And I know her, and I can tell in the way that her eyes nervously bounce from the questioning glances we’re both getting from the boys, who she gives a short shake of her head to, and then back to me, that she knows more than she told me last night.

“Rick, baby, I need you to be chill right now.”

“I’m chill. I’m always chill.”

From where he’s still perched in my recliner, Andre snickers, “Dad, you’re not always chill. You’re always getting mad about something.”

Skipping my attention away from my wife and to my son, I wave him off. “I am not.”

“Remember that guy at Uncle Daryl’s birthday party who asked for Mom’s autograph?” Andre adds. 

“Yes! Dad was ready to knock that guy out!” Carl laughs, throwing a few air punches to punctuate his point.

“Exactly! All he said was he wanted to take Mom for coffee and get her to autograph his comics.”

Frowning, I don’t recall the incident the same way the boys do. “He wanted more than that. He was all over your mother, looking at her.”

Kissing her tongue to her teeth, Michonne’s mother chimes in, agreeing with the boys. “Rick you have always had a temper, honey. Especially when it comes to Michonne. You were going to fight your own brother about her. Remember that, Chonne? Poor Jeff.”

“Thanks, Mom. Let’s just all give Rick a break for a sec ok? And we are getting off track-”

Narrowing my focus on Michonne and the slight reddish flush tinting her pretty face, I don’t let myself get distracted by the way she’s tugging at the corner of her pouty lips with her teeth, and instead ask in a calm even tone, “Where are Judith and Cameron?”

“Tree house!” RJ yells, the only way it seems the boys in this house can communicate. 

“Damn it. I’ll go get them out of the tree house. Shit!”

Rubbing her fingers through my hair, not even trying to stop me as I turn to head for the back door, Michonne seemingly give up and sighs at my string of curse words. “Language, Rick.”

“I know, sorry, Chonne.” I toss back over my shoulder, grimacing at the thought of what I might find in the tree house. It’s still early in the day, the noon day sun reaching its apex high in the sky, bathing our large yard with its luminous rays. Dodging soccer balls, skateboards, and a few dog toys littered here and there, the grass crunches under each step of my boots that I’m still wearing from my grocery run. 

I’ve just returned from the farm, checking in with my parents and making sure they have everything they need to make it through the next two weeks of whatever this pandemic situation may bring. And that’s what bugs me the most, the unpredictability of a situation like this. Perhaps that’s also what has everyone else so unnerved that they inexplicably have begun hoarding toilet paper. As I purposefully walked the aisles of Costco, intent on stocking up on our normal bi-weekly list of groceries and supplies, I was met at the end of the paper products aisle with empty shelves and racks where the toilet paper and paper towels used to be. 

I’m not someone who panics. It’s not my nature. But I would be lying if I said that the sight of those empty shelves, and the nervous banter of those around me commenting on the lack of paper products, didn’t cause a chill to inch across my skin. The sight, the sounds, the news, none of it makes sense, nor does it comfort me. Regardless of the confusion and uncertainty that’s attempting to penetrate my cool, I finished gathering everything on my wife’s list, as well as the few things that I wanted to be sure my parents had out at the farm. 

Though Jeff and Beth are still living there with them, I can’t say that those two are the best planners, so trusting that they will have the foresight to take care of things like this pushes me to get this done on my own. It’s a quirk of my personality I suppose, and even though I have moved on from my many roles on the farm, I still feel somewhat responsible for it, as well as the furniture business and my parents. Even though Michonne’s parents have tried to explain to me from their doctors’ perspective, that this pandemic and virus has a lot of unknowns, the fact that my parents live in a fairly isolated farming area should provide them more protection than some older individuals who live in more heavily populated areas. None of this makes me feel any better. 

All of this has me in protector mode, as Michonne calls it, needing to take stock of my people. Make sure everyone is accounted for, safe, has what they need. That I have what I need to protect them. Including taking inventory of the few hunting rifles I’ve got, as well as the Colt Python my granddad left to me.

Michonne is every bit as capable as I am, and honestly, she often makes better decisions under pressure than I do. She’s always said that it’s because as a person writing stories about the apocalypse, you have to sometimes think logically to keep your characters from being stupid and getting themselves killed. I suppose that’s true, and though she may be more patient and measured in her approach to adversity, I know with clarity of mind, that I will do whatever it takes to care for and take care of my family. As long as I know where they are, they have me and my protection.

And it’s for that reason, that the idea that Judith and Cameron have spirited themselves away from where I can have eyes on them, to presumably be alone in the infamous tree house, that I am very unhappy. Couple that with the discussions about whatever is going on between Cameron and Judith, as well as our agreement that it is best to allow him to stay with us until his parents are able to return from Europe, and I think any father would be on edge. 

That’s exactly where I find myself, on edge, as I stand below the steps that lead up to the tree house, my stunned gaze focused through the doorway where Cameron and my baby girl Judith stand. A tentative series of pecks and kisses, blinding them to my furious presence haunting the bottom of the steps. 

In that moment I know with certainty, clear as glass, and just as tenuous, I’m going to have to kill this boy.


	2. Chapter 2 - Michonne

Chapter 2 – Michonne

“Ok wait, algebraic expressions? What does that mean, writing an algebraic expression?”

“I don’t know.” RJ answers as he crunches on apple wedges, while simultaneously dropping one onto the floor for his ever-present companion Ruff. “We haven’t gone over it in class yet. The last section we went over was on ratios.” He shrugs. 

“Hm. Did you ask Judith?”

“She’s next door in the pool house practicing her violin.”

“Right, I forgot she had that virtual lesson today. Shit!” I curse, frustration rearing its ugly head.

“Language, Mom.” RJ mutters, his brown eyes growing round with the curse word slipping out in a manner that he’s probably more used to hearing from Rick than from me. 

Rolling my eyes, I can’t help but grimace at letting the expletive fly, but this week has been quite difficult. And it’s only Wednesday. And Rick isn’t even here to help.

Home schooling for the kids began on Monday, and while Rick and I originally setup a schedule for them to follow that we thought would help them and us manage it around our own work schedules, it went caput pretty quickly. 

Monday began with an early morning call from Rick’s dad that the two ponies that Herschel gifted us for the babies got out of their stalls either Sunday night or Monday morning. Either way they were missing, and he and Jeff could use some help running them down. Apparently, they are short staffed with many of the ranch hands being migrant workers that are frightened by the somber news of the ravages that Covid 19 is leaving in its wake as it makes its way from China, that many of them are moving on. Without that help to look for the horses, they needed outside assistance. That meant that Rick, who the kids usually go to for their math questions, hasn’t been home for two days to help me keep everyone on their schedule. 

On top of that, I had two meetings on Monday and Tuesday with the Marvel Studios executives advising me that the movie we are collaborating on for my new comic that brings in Storm from the X-Men, has to be postponed because of the virus. Disappointment is not a strong enough word to express the distress I’m experiencing with this news. I had just finished working on the script with Ryan Coogler, and we were ready to finalize casting, with us still undecided between Kiki Layne or Michaela Cole for the leading role of Storm. Two talented actresses, either of whom I really wanted to see take center stage in this massive project. Postponement of this project hurts. 

This morning I got a call from the contractor who is working on the construction of our new house informing me that they were not considered essential and would also have to suspend their work. Not surprisingly, I actually expected this to happen, and I was a little worried about the employees still going to the site, working so closely. 

It’s not a surprise that the house we are living in, Rick’s old house that he grew up in, is not sufficient in size for a family of eight. With only four bedrooms and three and a half baths, it’s a stretch to give everyone enough space. While my parents still live next door, and our little brood often spills over into their house, once the babies were born, we knew it simply wasn’t going to be enough. Judith is the only one with her own room, but it’s small. Too small for her to even setup her chair and music to practice violin, hence why she practices in my parents’ pool house. Andre and Carl share a room, but their man-sized bodies are way too big for the twin bunk beds that are pushed against each wall. And poor RJ is definitely not happy with the two little babies who have invaded his space and pushed his model cars and robots to one side. Nor is he happy with their schedule of waking up at least once a night, interrupting he and Ruff’s sleep. 

The new house was a good idea. A much-needed upgrade for the large Grimes family, that would have enough bedrooms for everyone but the babies to have their own room. By the time they would need it, Andre and Carl would be moved out. A pool of our own would grace the back yard, giving my parents’ pool that needs to be resurfaced with fiberglass and replace the old vinyl liner, a much-needed break. And would provide a master suite for Rick and I that had room for the California King sized bed that we impulse purchased for our Georgia home after getting one for the house we still own in Los Angeles, and rent out as an Airbnb when we aren’t using it. It’s a big hit in that open floor planned home, with the big bedrooms. The modest master bedroom for our house here wasn’t built for such a large bed, so despite the fact that Rick and I love to romp around in the large bed, it wasn’t really practical. 

Accumulating all of the things that this virus has taken from me in the last few days is beginning to gather a dark cloud over my mood. I’ve been here before, and at least I had fewer kids, less worries, and my constant work to keep me from wallowing in the hurt caused by his absence. I’m sorely missing my husband, and quietly resenting him not being here to help me at the same time as my brain tosses around the question of what the hell an algebraic expression is again. 

Admittedly, the kids, with the exception of the babies of course, do a good job being self-sufficient, but every now again I have to make sure that everyone is where they are supposed to be, doing what they are supposed to do. 

Glancing around the room to take a quick inventory of the Grimes bunch, I see that Carl and Andre are still firmly seated across from RJ with their heads down, plugging away, typing furiously, munching on hot Cheetos, and bobbing their heads to whatever is blasting in the tiny white AirPods adorning their ears. As RJ reminded me, Judith is in the pool house practicing her instrument. The babies are finally taking their afternoon nap for which I am extremely grateful. 

And Cameron? Well as soon as Rick found out about Cameron and Judith, who aren’t really boyfriend and girlfriend, mostly just crushing on each other, and tiptoeing around it because Judith isn’t allowed to date until she turns 16, he not so politely suggested that he make my parents’ home his while we wait this pandemic thing out. Even though my parents are working at their practice, and on call at Emory as needed, they agreed that it would probably be a good idea. Cameron is supposed to sleep over there, and school over there, especially if Rick is not home. His rule not mine, and while I don’t think it’s the best idea to make him feel like he’s still waiting this thing out on his own, I have to respect Rick’s decision. 

After her caught them embarking on what Judith swears was their very first kiss, he has Judith and Cameron on their very own special version of lockdown. Judith will be turning 15 later this year, but Cameron is already 17, and that is still a big enough age difference that it gives me pause. Even though I have been there. I have been the young girl crushing on an older boy. But, I am most importantly a mother who does not want to see her baby girl rush into something she’s not mature enough for. Being his friend is one thing. Again, been there, done that. But, being his girlfriend is another, and thinking of how Rick’s and my own love story began in the same tree house her father caught them kissing in, makes me worry somewhat. It doesn’t make me a murderous as Rick, who remained red-faced and pissed off for the rest of the night after he caught them, but it does give me pause. Even though...I get it.

I remember what it was like to have grown up watching someone somehow transform, right in front of you, from the gangly boy you were constantly in competition with, to the boy you wanted to kiss. And I can’t blame Judith. She knows the story of her Rick and Michonne. Well she knows enough about it, not everything though. Secrets don’t hold water with us, so her and her brothers are aware that Rick and I grew up together, and that we fell in love and got married. Yes, it is a fairly sanitized version of our messy rollercoaster relationship, as we didn’t think it made sense to tell them too much of the ups and downs. Perhaps we should have. Perhaps it would have given Judith a measuring stick with which to gauge her own growing infatuation with Cameron. Only time will tell, but for now, a little space between her and Cameron is a good thing.

With the crunch, crunch, crunch of RJ and Ruff enjoying their afternoon snack of Honeycrisp apples, I pull my thoughts back to the matter at hand. Me, the lone wolf trying to help my little genius with his homework. Sucking in a deep breath, I still my nerves and pull the laptop over to where I’m sitting next to RJ at the dining room table, which has been converted to a makeshift classroom. There are Macbooks and iPhones, power cords, chargers, and iPads everywhere. At least their school is paperless, and all of their assignments are accessible on their devices. There is no dearth of textbooks and worksheets like when I was in school. Which is good because without the cleaning lady coming once a week, the whole house would have been swallowed by kids and their...stuff. I’ve had to ask the kids, more than once, to corral their shoes that have gathered in the entry foyer, their tossed aside hoodies that clutter the family room, and the lonely collection of cups, and half empty water bottles that somehow never belong to anyone. It’s a mess that I’m just not used to. 

And math? Well I’m just not used to that either, and let’s be real and say there’s a reason that I’m a writer and illustrator. My mind is about creation. Artistic expression! I hate math. I always have. What makes it even worse, if that’s possible, RJ and Judith are both considered gifted, and are both taking advanced courses. I curse Rick internally once again as I continue to glance down at the glowing words and figures on RJ’s laptop screen and read the question, over and over, wondering again, fruitlessly, what the hell this is, and how the hell am I supposed to help him?

Probably taking note of my silence, or maybe the grouses, and softly muttered curse words I’m trying to hide from him, RJ places his hand over mine. “Mom, when is Dad gonna be back?”

“Uh, I’m not sure, honey. But don’t worry, I’m going to help you.”

Inching his Macbook away from me, closing it shut with a soft snap, RJ levels me with those soft dark eyes of his, and as politely as an 11-year-old can, he tells me in no uncertain terms, “No thank you, Mom. I’ll wait for Dad. Ok?” 

“Why? I’m not busy right now, RJ. I just finished a call to my agent, and I’m free the rest of the day.” I gather a smile for him and hope that he doesn’t see through the sheer fright that’s causing me to blink an inordinate amount of times. 

“Mom...” he eeks out, wincing a bit, causing that little dimple in his chin that he shares with his father to deepen. It definitely melts my heart and makes me a little weepy just the same as I also notice that he’s made it just around that corner where he’s considered a ‘tween’. The baby fat that once chubbed out his cheeks, is beginning to slim and leave behind pre-pubescent angles. 

RJ is the baby that Rick and I made on a stormy night, out at his parents’ farm, just as we were trying to figure out how to move forward after a long separation. If we even could move forward. It was a difficult time, but his conception was built on a love stronger than any I’ve ever known. And maybe, perhaps, for that reason, RJ, with his demeanor as a bit of a curious genius. A kid that loves stories and adventures with his dad, and hugs from his mom, represents to me the embodiment of both Rick and I, of the bond that reblossomed our love story. Seeing him grow older just, I don’t know. It gets to me in a way that I’m not sure how to express except to savor the growth of that brace faced grin of his as he again tells me he’ll just wait for his dad.

Just as I’m about to give it one more valiant try at attempting to understand RJ’s homework, Judith saves me and comes in through the back door, toting her violin case and song book under her arm. 

“Hey.”

“Hey yourself. How was your lesson?”

“I don’t know. Good I guess.”

“You guess?”

“Yeah...” she answers, the word petering off and accompanied by a nonchalant wave of her hand as though her initial answer was good enough. Please don’t let her have attitude today about this Cameron thing...I simply cannot. Not today!

“What did Miss Jasmine say in your lesson?” I inquire, knowing that violin is something that Judith normally takes very seriously. Since she was six, and decided that unlike her older brothers, piano was not going to be her thing, she has been quite dedicated to learning and playing the violin, coming a long way from the little girl who plucked out with one finger on her very first learner violin, a shortened version of ‘Bicycle Built for Two’ at her grandparents’ anniversary party. Judith is a virtuoso now, even earning a coveted spot in the Atlanta Symphony Orchestra, beating out competitors much older and with more experience. But that’s Judith. Once she puts her mind to something, she doesn’t let it go. So much like Rick, she is simply tenacious with a capital T. And I suppose I should have remembered that when she levels me with her gaze, eyes wide and earnest, and asks if we can talk later. She wants to talk about Cameron, who I have tried to keep her separated from for most of this week. At least kept them both so busy that they can’t find time to be alone together. I’m certain she’s not happy about it, and in classic Judith style, she is not going to let this go. Pride in her relentlessness puffs my chest out, but also wounds me a little as I realize that I may have to go down this road with her on my own for now. I need Rick to come home already!

“Of course we can, Jude.”

“Is Daddy back yet?”

“No!” RJ interrupts, “but I need him to come home soon. I need his help with math.” He blurts sadly, running his fingers over the smooth metal of his laptop casing. 

Perking up at the mention of one of her strongest school subjects, Judith grins at her little brother. “Oh. I can help you. I had Mrs. Robinson’s class.”

“Thank you! Thank you!” he laughs, his voice raising with animation as he claps his hands together in a prayer pose. Ruff feeds off of his excitement and begins to bark, gaining the attention of Andre and Carl.

“What’s going on?” Carl wonders aloud, his eyes peeking from over his laptop screen.

Gesturing with his thumb my way, RJ answers, “Mom tried to help me with my math.”

“Nooooo! Dude, why didn’t you say something to me and Carl? We could have helped you.” Andre muses, a series of chuckles raising his smile to his eyes.

Scratching at the bit of faint scruff attempting to scatter the tan coloring of his light brown cheeks, Carl nods his head, agreeing with Andre. “Never, dude, never.”

Holding up my hands in a halting motion, I have to put a stop to this, because these little monsters are hurting my feelings. “Ok, wait! I’m not bad at math. I just don’t enjoy it.”

“Mom, no!” Judith responds, trying to placate me with a cute little condescending smile, and a pat on my shoulder. “We love you. And you rock at so many things. Seriously rock. Like no one’s mom is as cool as you are.”

“Absolutely!” Andre and Carl chime in together, evidencing that twin bond that often has them surfing the same wavelength at the same time. Finishing each others’ sentences, generally in sync on so many things. 

“Best mama ever!” RJ adds, leaning over to wrap his thin arms around my shoulders. 

“See.” Judith gestures towards her brothers. “But just really awful at math. It’s a thing, Mom.” She continues, taking a seat on my other side at the dining room table and gently, with the love and care of a musician, placing her violin on the table in front of her. 

“I don’t know if I should be appreciative of the compliment, or still offended that you goofballs don’t think I can do math.” Crossing my arms across my chest I lean back into my chair, feigning true offense. Honestly, I’m not offended at all. They pulled my card. I’m terrible at math. I just didn’t expect them to call me out like this. Together. It’s kind of awesome witnessing them having this moment of solidarity, but without my wingman, Rick, here to have my back, I gotta admit, being outnumbered 1 to 6 is not near as much fun as 2 to 6.

Andre removes his AirPods from his ears and closes his laptop shut, threading his fingers in a clasp in front of him. Frowning until his eyebrows, a mix of chestnut brown and sandy gold, angle between his eyes. “Mom, you shouldn’t be offended. But, we have receipts.”

“What?”

Snapping, Judith laughs, and rolls her neck in an exaggeration that no Atlanta housewife could compete with. “Read her, Dre!”

“What?”

“Exhibit A. Mom, do you remember when I was working on a rocking chair when I was 8 years old. It was the first one I was going to do on my own. Granddad Boden was still alive and helped me with the design. Do you recall this?”

Haltingly I respond, remembering full well where Andre is going with this. Damn. “Yes, I remember.”

“Do you remember that I needed help with the measurements for the legs, and because Dad was out making a furniture delivery you decided to help me with them. Remember that, Mom?”

“Of course.” I scoff, thinking that now would be a good time to go get dinner started.

“Do you also remember that when I began using your measurements the rocking chair tilted to the right because none of the legs were level?”

With as much sincerity and seriousness as I can muster, I mount my defense and add a little doubt to his assertion. “Maybe your cutting skills were rough that day? It happens, Andre.”

“Mom, what about when you got in an argument with my 4th grade teacher, Mrs. Waylon about core math? Dad had to calm you down at that parent teacher conference when she told you to stop trying to help me.”

“Listen, Carl, you don’t have to make a bunch of little circles and boxes to know that 4x4 is sixteen. That’s just facts.”

“Just saying, Mom.”

“Ooh, what about that time you were gonna make Grandma Grimes’ peach cobbler and tried to wing it on converting ounces to cups?” Shaking her head sadly, with a snicker Judith adds, “Most shameful cobbler to ever come out of a Grimes Family peach ever.”

Rolling my eyes, I defend myself. “Your dad ate that cobbler with no problem. You guys are just picky.”

“Dad loves you too much to tell you when you’re wrong.” RJ adds, putting his two cents in. “We all do.”

“Dad is the one who helped with the correct measurements for my rocking chair.” Carl comments, furthering his brother’s initial argument. 

“And Dad is the one who re-wrote the recipe on your index cards with the proper conversions for you, that you thought you found on your own.” Judith adds. “See, Mom. Math just isn’t your jam.”

Andre closes out his argument with a few final words, “But, if we need help with English, literature, art? You’re the lady to see” he sums, with a click of his tongue and a wink of his eye, his finger pointed at me like a gun.

Pointing towards her violin, the instrument that I introduced her to all those years ago, Judith announces with glee. “Music!”

“Excellent taste in music, Mom! Who else would take her teenaged sons and daughter to a super chill Childish Gambino set on a school night at a club in Atlanta?”

Joining his twin, Carl snaps his fingers, “And don’t forget you actually wrote the comic for, and executive produced like, the most popular television show of the last ten years. And you’re gonna do a superhero movie. Doesn’t get more boss than that, Mom.”

Judith grimaces, “True story. But, poor Dad’s definitely no help with those things. He’s got match cause he measures and adds and whatnot all day. You can’t make furniture with bad measurements. On the other hand, he’s got crap taste in music, only likes dry books about furniture design or history, and the only thing he can draw is furniture.”

“Oh yeah, that rockabilly country music he likes is pretty awful.” Carl offers, then rises to head out of the room, snatching up his phone that is buzzing with an incoming text message. Probably from Cindy.

“Alright, you guys are not going to run down my husband when he’s not here to defend himself.” I point a finger at each of them. “I get it. I’m not great with math. Fine. RJ, let your sister help you then. I’m going to start on dinner before the babies wake up.”

Rising from the dining room table, I want to chuckle myself at the truth of their words, but I don’t want them to know it. Once I’m alone in the kitchen though, remembering every instance of my poor math skills that they brought up, I finally let go my laughter, wishing that Rick was here, and missing his presence all the same. Even his awful rockabilly country music.

XXXX

With a glass of sweet red wine to my lips, I absentmindedly accompany the mellow country lyrics of a song that plucks at my lonely heartstrings and reminds me of my bearded, cowboy booted, blue jean button-uped, sexy walking husband. 

“How do I get through one night without you?  
If I had to live without you  
What kind of life would that be?”

I hear ya, Leanne I think to myself, shuffling my slippered feet across the tiles of the large kitchen. With all of the kids now sleep, and after a big dinner of spaghetti and meatballs, and a viewing of one of our favorite family movies, Jumanji, I’m left by myself. Alone with my thoughts. Laughter, teasing, baby cries, text message alerts, blaring music. All of it has dampened to nothingness, leaving behind only the quiet din of the refrigerator’s hum, and the pour of more of the scarlet wine into my glass. 

The kids and I had fun today, I think, amazed that we made it through another day of this crazy quarantine life. They all got their schoolwork done, math included. Judith got her violin lesson completed, and as she seemed to prefer putting off her chat with me about Cameron until Rick returns, they spent a little time together today as she helped him read through a script he just got for a show he’s auditioning for. Carl spent an inordinate amount of time Facetiming Cindy, which I think I’m going to have to cut down to maybe 2 hours a day. Andre even got a chance to have a Zoom meeting with his baseball team, as they all commiserated over what might be the loss of their spring baseball season to the faceless virus Covid 19, and what they were all doing to stay baseball ready. RJ and Ruff joined me as I took a walk through the neighborhood, pushing the babies slowly, taking note of things that I normally speed past on my way to or from some thing or another. Kids’ games or practices. Meetings. Work. Shopping. The myriad of things that keep our lives running on a seemingly never-ending hamster wheel. 

Right now though, when the world has collectively decided in the face of a nearly inconceivable occurrence, that everything needs to stop. Relegating us all to our individual corners, a time out from the constant fight of life, to kind of do, well...nothing. Now that my mind isn’t consumed with constantly doing something, I’m taking notice of everything. The tiny flowering of weeping willows, the very first Georgia trees to leaf in the spring. I could even make out the sight of what I think was a cardinal, or as my mother calls them, Christmas Card Birds, perched in a tree on the corner of my parents’ wooded lot, by the driveway. The sound of life all around me was so beautiful, and in the midst of what could be a very overwhelming moment in time, I took a second to be appreciative of this moment to pause.

It was a good day. Even the ribbing from the kids about my lackluster math skills. All of it was good. It was a positive sign that we would make it through this. Whatever this turns out to be, for however long it stretches. But, as my feelings, the raw, thorny ones inch to the surface, emboldened by the bitter sweetness of the wine, I have to admit that Rick’s absence the last few days leaves a particular hole in the happiness of the day. 

At first, my initial inclination was to censure myself for feeling melancholy, maybe even sad that he wasn’t where he was supposed to be. Where I wanted him to be. By my side. With our kids. With our family, instead of helping his parents. Those thoughts, dark as they may be, have roots in another time where Rick was absent. Where the kids and I spent our days and nights together, making our way without the constant of his love and care. When the void of father and husband had been precariously filled by another. Another who is now quite famous, and though the kids seem to have somewhat forgotten him, especially Judith, every now and again Andre or Carl will experience a reverie. A memory of something that Ezekiel used to say, or used to do. It’s unclear whether or not they realize the place he held in our lives, or if they recall him with some fondness as they do the other cast of characters they have become familiar with as they spent much of their lives on the set for my television show. But...the memory is still there. Living and breathing just a blink away. 

Perhaps that is what has me swaddled in Rick’s blue robe, heavily cloaking me with the scent of him, as I try not to allow this reclusive moment in a lifetime of otherwise happy ones, to pull my mood down. 

“How do I live without you? I want to know  
How do I breathe without you if you ever go?  
How do I ever, ever survive?  
How do I, how do I, oh, how do I live?”

Gulping down the last of the wine, I settle on heading to bed, hoping that the babies’ bellies remain full for the rest of the night and that I don’t have to tackle another round of wet diapers, and double breast feeding alone. Just as I reach for my phone, it lights up, startling me as I snatch my hand back, almost wondering if I conjured the illumination on my own. Instantly noticing Rick’s ringer, Patsy Cline’s ‘Sweet Dreams’, the song that we danced all night to at Connie and Daryl’s wedding. 

Sliding my finger across the screen, I’m hungry for the sound of his voice, sheepishly scolding myself for acting as though I didn’t just talk to the man this morning. 

“Hey, baby.” 

“Hey, sweetheart. How did today go?” His deep, bass heavy voice greets me, and I simply melt. Why does this man still do that to me? My lips involuntarily pull into a grin at just the sound of his voice. How ridiculously in love with him am I? Still!

Sniffing a little, I rub at my nose, sensing a shaky weepiness encroaching on the usual stillness of my voice, just at hearing Rick call me his usual name for me ‘sweetheart’. 

“It was good,” I cough, “Good.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. How about your day?” I ask, following his lead, but really wanting to ask him when he was coming home.

“Great. Found the ponies down behind Stonewall creek. Got ‘em back in the barn. Turns out one of the new farmhands didn’t secure the latch, so they just walked on out of their stalls, out of the barn that also wasn’t secured.”

“Surprised Jeff doesn’t do a nighttime sweep for that kind of stuff like you used to.”

“I know. I got in his ass about it too. He’s gotta take his job more seriously. Hire better people. Keep a better watch on things. Ya know?”

“I do.”

“Hate to get on him but...”

“But what, Rick?”

“I can’t be running down to KC every time there’s an issue. I’ve got my own family to look out for.”

“They’re your family too.” He’s right. But, something in me doesn’t want to add fuel to that fire. They are his family too, and yet...we have been here before.

Rick releases a breath, exasperation clear in his tone. He sounds tired. “I’m not going to be that guy again, Chonne. I promised you that before.”

“Rick...”

“I meant it. Now I got a sad wife sitting at the kitchen table, downing glasses of wine like it’s wat-”

“Rick! How do you know that?”

“Turn around.”

Swiveling my head behind me, following his direction, I can’t believe what I’m seeing. Like he’s been there all along, Rick is leaning his shoulder against the doorway, a somber smile beneath that graying beard. How did he sneak up on me? Am I too drunk to have noticed the heavy pace of his cowboy boots? 

Tossing his phone on to the marble counter, he tilts his head to the right, squinting his eyes until they animate the little lines at the corners of his eyes. His face is still so handsome to me. Kissed by the sun, he’s a little tanned, not too much. Just a little. Salt and pepper crowd the silk of his unruly curls that are starting grow over his ears.

Wanting to go to him, but also concerned that he’s here in the middle of the night, I hold myself back, needing him to explain what’s going on. “What are you doing here? You drove home this late?”

“I made you a promise a long time ago, that you and our kids are my first priority. I meant that.”

“I know.”

“Do you? Me getting up, heading down to the farm, that...” he swallows thickly, as though emotion is clogging his throat, choking his words. “I could hear it in your voice, Chonne.”

“I’m okay, Rick. You didn’t have to-”

Ambling towards me, his boots softly click against the tile. Leaning down behind me, his face rests against my shoulder. As his lips land on my cheek, beard bristling in the sweetest tickle, Rick’s hand inches between the folds of the robe and land in a gentle palmed squeeze of my breast. 

“I did have to. I had to remember my promise to you. To our babies.”

“The ponies-”

“Jeff could have taken care of that. It’s my job to take care of you. Sometimes, I act first, and I’m sorry. We have history there, don’t we, sweetheart. That makes it...difficult.”

“Rick, not difficult, just...sometimes I remember what it was like when we were apart. I hate my part in it. Your part in it. I don’t want to remember.”

“Sweetheart, I belong to you, and you belong to me. Always.” He pauses for a beat, the intensity growing, breathing between us. Because Rick remembers too. He knows what our time apart did to not just me, but to him too. Simply put, it crushed him. It’s something he has admitted that he still feels guilt about. “Chonne, sweetheart, say it.” He urges, the request left in sweet damp whispers against the corner of my lips. “Say it.”

“I belong to you, and you belong to me.”

“That’s right. Me and you, Chonne, and this family you and I made. Nothing gets between that again. Ok?”

“Ok.”

“So, I’m sorry. I told my parents and Jeff before I left. It’s...it’s on Jeff to figure all of that out from now on. No more back and forth. I remember, Chonne. God help me I remember the damage we did to each other before. It won’t happen again. I won’t have you here, trying to manage without me.”

No words are sufficient. This man...this beautiful man, who loves me, adores me, he knows exactly how I was feeling with him gone. I don’t even need to conjure the words to explain or discuss something that between me and Rick is simple, and pure. Implicitly understood. I don’t bother with words, I just inch my hand up to cup the side of his face. A gentle caress of my fingertips through his beard, a soft graze of his warm skin.

Biting at the corner of his lip, Rick closes his eyes, as though he missed my touch. Savors the electricity that arcs at the simple meeting of our skin. “I’m home to take care of my girl.” He promises with new kisses that grow from soft pecks on my cheek, nibbles on my ear, to licks and hard sucks on my neck. Growling, his voice full of that low rumble of southern gentleman masculinity that makes me wet every single time, he asks against my ear “Forgive me?”

Panting, my chest rising and falling against his large, warm palm cupping my breasts with one hand, thrumming his calloused fingers against my nipple, and my throat in a soft clasp with the other. I turn my face to answer in the most breathless whisper I can conjure against the lust stealing every ounce of my composure, “Yes.”

“Come on. Let me apologize to my wife.”

“Well you do have a lot to make up for.”

“Oh, I know.” He chuckles, offering me his hand to lift me from the chair. 

“Not just the going to KC thing either. The kids ganged up on me about my lack of math skills.” I confess, my lips twisted in a fake pout. 

Pulling me into him, his arms snug around my body, crushing me against the wall of his hard chest, Rick leans in, and just before he kisses me, he mutters against the pillow of my lips, “I know, they called me and told me you threatened to help RJ with his math work.” 

Snatching my head back, I’m incredulous at their nerve. Mouth gaping, I simply shake my head.

“Poor boy was afraid you were gonna tank his grades.”

“What?! I’m gonna get that little boy!”

“He also told me his mama was missing his daddy.”

“Well he didn’t lie about that.”

“I missed his mama too. I’m about to show you just how much.” Rick promises, sinking his teeth in a seductive bite into my neck, causing me to squeal, just as he clutches and squeezes a handful of my ass in his hands. Squealing, Rick takes advantage and swallows down my delight, devouring my mouth in a hungry suck of my lips. Leaving me breathless, simply without air, he turns and takes my hand to lead me upstairs to our bedroom.


	3. Chapter  3 - Rick

Chapter 3 – Rick

“You need to talk to your sons. Today!”

“Which ones? I’ve got a few.” I mumble, absentmindedly scratching at my beard, my focus on the rebuilt chassis of the 1964 Mustang on the television.

“Not funny, Rick.” Michonne replies with what I can see out of the corner of my eye is an exasperated tilt of her head, and a roll of her eyes. With her arms full, a baby on each hip, she shakes her head at me, agitation coloring her features. 

I reach up to relieve her of who I can see, though dressed fairly identically in green and yellow onesie, is Joseph. With them being identical I can tell it’s Joseph by the dimples in his fat cheeks, and the splotchy dark patch that is his birthmark, on his elbow. Holding Joseph in my arms, he immediately begins his baby talking to me, probably fussing at me too. Tickling him across his fat tummy with the tips of my fingers, then pretending to chew his feet, he gifts me with a round of giggles that showcase the few teeth that have pushed through his gums. Damn we make some cute kids I muse, just before I remember that Michonne is not pleased with some of our cute kids, and I drag my thoughts back to our conversation.

“Well what did Andre and Carl do now?”

“See, I knew you knew which ones.”

“Hell, it couldn’t have been RJ, his mischief is mainly sneaking cookies for him and the damn dog. And the babies are too small to have pissed you off unless you found Boden in his crib with his diaper undone again. And talking to him about it wasn’t going to change that, so...” shrugging my shoulders as I push my glasses up the bridge of my nose and lean back into my chair, settling Joseph on my lap so he can watch television with me, I add, “deductive reasoning, Chonne.”

Bending to place Boden in the swing next to my chair, Michonne sucks her teeth, “Why did you even bother to ask which ones then?” 

“Just checking.” I answer, swiveling my gaze to my left to check out my wife’s ass as she takes her time to buckle the baby safely into the swing. Appreciating the round plumpness of her hips and bottom in her black yoga pants, my attention is completely stolen from the program I was watching. Joseph must not want to watch Fast ‘n Loud anyway, since he has taken the remote from my lap and begun mashing enough buttons to change it to an infomercial. 

No matter, my attention is no longer on the show about rehabbing classic cars, even though it’s a favorite of mine, and feeds into a side hobby Daryl and I have taken up together. New tires, and paint jobs are no match for my wife’s physique though, so I don’t bother with stopping Joseph from messing with the television, instead I reach my hand out and let it land on its favorite place. With a firm squeeze and then a nice little slap, I watch Michonne’s ass jiggle, and delight in the squeal that I know is sure to follow.

“Rick!” 

“Huh?”

Standing and giving me her attention, Michonne chuckles “What are you doing?” 

“Nothing.”

Turning back to the swing to set the program for it to slowly rock Boden to sleep for a lunchtime nap, Michonne laughs again, her mood clearly improved. Mission accomplished. Over her shoulder she adds, “You know, this is why your sons are so damn mannish, and part of why I need you to talk to them.”

“What do you mean?”

“They see how you act around me, and well... they are becoming men too. Picked up some of your habits.”

Frowning, I’m not sure what she’s talking about. What does mannish mean? “Ok, come here and tell me what you’re talking about.” Reaching for her hand, I grasp a hold of her delicate fingers, rubbing my thumb over her wedding rings, and pull her towards me, then with a gentle tug I urge her to bend down towards me. “Give me a kiss.”

Narrowing her eyes and twisting her lips, sucking the bottom one between her teeth as though she’s thinking about my request, she doesn’t even realize how sexy she is to me. Even right now, when she’s clearly irritated with me, and I know she’s been busy all morning on some kind of cleaning kick, bleaching, sanitizing, wiping, washing, spraying... she’s still sexy as fuck in her leggings and half cutoff Captain Marvel t-shirt. Oblivious to the way she’s turning me on, she makes a long sucking sound dragging that plump lip from where it’s trapped in her mouth, and I can’t help myself. Raising my palm to the back of her head, I bring her closer to my face, and there isn’t enough control in the world, I have to taste her, just a real quick, little...bite. 

“Mmm...Rick...” she whines against my mouth as I hold her still as I nibble those sexy full lips that belong to me. Kissing her fully, I can feel her soften, her lips plump and puckered against mine. Pulling away, I wink at her, sending her into a series of whispered giggles, accompanied by the prettiest smile on the prettiest girl in the world. “You play too much.”

Licking at my lips, savoring the taste of her, I nod my head in agreement. “I know.” Sweeping my gaze over her, I can’t help but grin right back at her, pride and joy swelling in my chest at the very thought that this woman belongs to me. How fucking lucky am I, I think to myself, not even willing to allow my mind to dive into memories of a time when she wasn’t. Been there, traveled that road, not going back. “Now tell me what has you agitated, sweetheart.”

“That.” She points at me.

“Me?”

“Not you per se, that...that Grimes charm. That.”

Smiling at her, I shake my head, not sure of her logic, “Why is that a bad thing?”

Reaching towards Joseph, she removes the remote control from his mouth and hands him one of his plastic toys that was in the bin next to the swing, tossing the now wet remote control onto the large ottoman that makes the wraparound couch resemble a big bed. Plopping down on one end of the couch, she rests her head in her upturned palm and gives me a thoughtful look. 

After a beat, running her fingers through the ends of her long locs, as though she’s gathered her thoughts, Michonne continues, “It’s not bad. But it’s very effective. Women love it. I love it. But you Grimes men know that don’t you?”

I can’t fight the grin that teases at the corner of lips, pulling them with a strong twitch to give in. “Eh... Ha... I don’t know how to answer that, Chonne.”

“It’s not a setup, Rick. What I’m trying to say is that you, your father, and now your sons, all have this magnetic charm, this thing that women can’t resist. Even these little girls your sons are trying to break quarantine and get over here in the hot tub.”

A bark of laughter rips from my lips, I can’t suppress it any longer. It’s so sudden it must startle Joseph, because he looks up at me with wide brown eyes as though he’s not quite certain what to make of the howling chuckle. Soothing him, I rub my palm over his chubby belly and relaxes back against me, lifting his toy back to nub at it with his handful of teeth and gums.

Scoffing at my outburst, Michonne doesn’t seem half as amused by the boys’ antics as I am. “It’s not funny, Rick. I knock on Carl and Andre’s bedroom door to tell them that they need to finish cleaning the hallway bathroom, and what do I hear? I hear our sons, trying to cajole Cindy and her friend into coming over to hang out in the hot tub tonight when you and I are sleep.”

“Ah-”

Holding up a hand to halt what I’m sure she can tell is a weak protestation on our sons’ behalf, Michonne puts her palm up flat, cutting me off, “Wait before you stick up for them, just know that the Grimes charm was working! These girls, poor dumb girls, are giggling and saying they have to figure out a way to get out of the house without their parents knowing about it.”

Dragging my hand back over my head, I sheepishly drop my head as I scratch the back of my neck, not wanting Michonne to see the smirk I’m again fighting to smother from turning into another full-blown laugh. 

“It’s not funny, Rick. They are not taking this social distancing thing serious, and they are trying to talk these girls into defying their parents to come hang with them.” Rolling her eyes, her voice pitching a little higher, evidencing just how upset she is, she continues, “And what’s most disturbing is that I could tell those girls were falling for it. Willing to possibly get themselves sick, their families sick, our family sick. And for what?”

I don’t really have an answer for her, and I know she’s upset about this, so no more smirks and jokes from me. She’s right, and well, maybe agreeing with her is a good start to figuring out how to solve this problem. If there even is a solution for it. How do you tell fifteen-year-old boys to stop chasing after girls? When I was a young man, Shane and I spent the majority of our time playing sports and flirting with girls. And as bad as it might sound now as a forty something year old father of six, it was a lot of fun. When you’re young, and hormones are raging, once you can get a girl to give you just a sniff, it’s literally all you can think about. How to get that next sniff...or more. 

My mind can travel back in time now as I sit here, go decades in my past, and remember the very first girl who gave me a kiss. The first girl who let me touch her breasts. The first girl who touched my dick. And oh man...the first girl who finally took my virginity. I’m empathetic with my boys, they are at that place right now, chasing after that first girl. And while I’ve found my forever girl, the very first girl to touch my heart, I know what it’s like to keep pursuing a girl. 

Watching the disappointment cloud my wife’s pretty features lets me know that she doesn’t quite understand, and I hate the idea that she might find my laughter as a dismissal of her concerns. “You’re right, Chonne. That’s irresponsible of the boys to try to get those girls to do that. I will talk with them about why that’s wrong.”

“Thank you, Rick, but it’s not just that. That’s just a symptom of the bigger problem.”

“Right. Ok?”

“Do you know what bigger problem I’m talking about?”

“Yep. Sorta.”

“The bigger problem is that just like how you don’t want Judith and Cameron dating, I don’t think Carl and Andre should be either. It’s clear that even though they are about to be sixteen, they don’t understand the emotions tied up in all of that flirting and coaxing. It leads somewhere I don’t think they are ready for. I mean, if they can talk girls into putting their lives in danger during a pandemic, they could talk them into other stupid things too. That worries me.”

“Ok, wait. I don’t know think that this is the same as the whole Judith thing. She’s way too young for dating anybody. Especially Cameron. He’s a grown man.”

Sitting up, Michonne becomes animated as we head back down a path to go over this Cameron and Judith thing. I promised not to kill him. What else does she want from me?

“He’s seventeen, and listen, Rick, I agreed with you. We sat them down together and explained remember? You about gave Cameron a heart attack sitting there cleaning your Colt.” Tsking at me, she shakes her head, probably still disappointed at the way I handled that conversation. I thought I managed it pretty well seeing as I didn’t strangle him for confessing how much he liked Judith in front of me. I didn’t even follow my initial inclination to ban him from my house, or from seeing Judith for the rest of her life. Hell, he got off easy with a simple conversation. What I wanted to do was to send him to Spain with his parents, pandemic be damned. But I didn’t, I calmly followed Michonne’s lead as she explained that Judith was too young to date, and that they needed to remain friends. Against my better judgement that wanted me to kill him, I just made sure to thoroughly clean my gun to hopefully let him know that I wouldn’t hesitate to use it if he ever touched her, even while Michonne did all the talking. After watching his face flush scarlet, I think he got the picture. 

In general, Cameron is a fine boy. I’ve watched him grow up. But, Judith is my baby. My only baby girl. I’m not going to allow some boy, even a boy that I know very well, to mess with her. She’s not ready, and dammit I’m not ready. Judith didn’t like that we told her she has to wait until she’s sixteen to date, even if it’s Cameron...hell especially if it’s Cameron. But even as she stared at me glaring at Cameron, steaming mad, her lips trembling like her mother’s do when she gets mad, I couldn’t break on this. I cannot. My Judith is still my perfect little baby. I know what boys like Cameron want to do with sweet girls like Cameron. I know she’s turning into a lady. Looking more like her mother every day. I know exactly why a boy like him would want a girl like her, because I was a boy like him, and her mother was a girl like her. I used to dream about Michonne and what I wanted to do to her when she would bounce around in those little bikinis, and short shorts. If I thought it wouldn’t have gotten me killed by her father, and thought she really was too young for me at the time, I might have tried to be with her a lot earlier than I did. So, I get that. I completely get that. And that’s exactly why Cameron better give my baby girl more than the prescribed six feet of social distancing. 

I guess, thinking this through, talking it through in my brain, I’ve walked my understanding right into Michonne’s point about the boys. I guess they are the Ricks and the Camerons, the boys who want to do things to other men’s daughters. Oh yeah...I get it now. Not sure why it never occurred to me, but I suppose it is because I mostly have sons that I didn’t consider it from that perspective. 

“Listen, Michonne, I get what you’re saying now. I wasn’t thinking about it from that point of view.”

“Of course not, you’re probably thinking how much like you the boys are. Like Cameron that you were. But, at a time like this, it’s not just innocent flirting and trying to be with a girl you like.”

“You’re right. There’s definitely more at stake here than getting a girl pregnant or something like that.”

With a snap of her fingers, as though something else has just occurred to her, Michonne returns to me the same smirking grin I’ve been stifling throughout our conversation, “Ya know, Rick, I’m glad you brought that up.”

For a second, in just the briefest speck of a time I get the idea that just like she has four times before, Michonne is going to tell me she’s pregnant. And I almost get so excited until she stops me.

“And I see that grin on your face, Rick, I am not pregnant again. Thank god!” she throws her hands up in a praying pose, literally thanking God.

“Why would that be so bad? We make beautiful babies. Isn’t that right Joseph? Your mama and I know how to make ‘em.”

“Seven kids is way too many kids, Rick. This is 2020, no one has kids like that anymore. That’s the other thing I wanted to talk to you about though.”

“If it’s not you being pregnant, what is there to talk about?” 

“Dr. Lynch called about giving me another prescription for birth control pills, and I think I don’t want to do that anymore. I’m going to be 40 soon and it just feels like my body responds differently to the hormones now. I want to stop taking them.”

Now I’m frowning again. This woman just told me that she doesn’t want any more babies, and if she isn’t taking birth control pills she might have another baby. What am I missing here? This is what I get for letting Daryl talk me into day drinking whiskey while we’ve been on quarantine. Normally I don’t drink during the day, but it’s Saturday, and after he dropped off a box of whiskey from his bar that is temporarily closed, I thought a glass while I relax wouldn’t hurt. After cleaning the kitchen, and mopping the floor, I figured I was off duty and would watch my favorite show, pick up some car ideas, and enjoy my day. Now I’m feeling a little fuzzy on what Michonne is getting at, and I’m thinking that day drinking just isn’t for me. 

“Vasectomy, Rick.”

“No.” 

“Let’s at least talk about it.”

“No.” There is finality in that answer. It’s short and to the point. I’m not doing it. I’m so not doing it, I pick up Joseph, and place him in the playpen, and head to the kitchen for another drink. 

“Wait, Rick! Let’s talk about this.” Rushing behind me, Michonne follows into the kitchen. Sitting across from me at the island while I serve myself another glass of the Woodford Reserve whiskey, she watches patiently with her hands folded in front of her. The first sip burns, but the warmth of the chocolate malt rye rolls around on my tongue, and actually helps cool the agitation building in my head at my wife’s request. Michonne knows that I would do absolutely anything for her. Anything. I would give my life for her. But my balls? My literal balls?

“Are you feeling calm now, baby?” she asks, leaning over to push a wayward curl from my over long hair behind my ear.

Raising my eyes to hers, I try to be patient, to cool my tongue so I don’t inadvertently say something that might sequester me to the couch for the night. It’s happened before, and I don’t feel like sleeping alone tonight, so I suck in another breath, allowing the air to fall from my lips in a steady gust. Scratching at the hair on my chin and around my lips, I close my eyes, “I’m feeling something alright.” I inch out, blowing out the steam cresting in my chest one last time. 

“Rick, I just think it’s your turn to take the birth control ball. Dr. Lynch said that as women get older, the risk of blood clots increases when taking the pill. I don’t want to take that risk.” Blinking slowly, Michonne’s eyes soften on me, the mahogany wine of them dusky and warm beneath the fluttering curl of her eyelashes. “Please, Rick...” she adds, knowing good and damn well how to work me over. That I really can’t say no to her. Dammit!

“You’re only 38, Chonne.”

“40 is right around the corner. The risk of health complications is lower for you if you get a vasectomy, Rick.”

“Hm.” I growl out, frustration burning a hole in my chest. 

“And I know you don’t want to use condoms.”

“No.”

“No, me neither. I love the way you feel.” She asserts with a pouting moue of her full lips, drawing my attention. My eyes focus on hers, trapped in her gaze. Wordless, she’s draping her soft hand on top of where mine is clutching and grasping into uneasy fists on the counter. “We have to do something though. No more babies. I’m too old to go through another pregnancy. Joseph and Boden are it. We’ve hit our Grimes clan quota don’t you think?” Michonne asks, the finality in her question evidences that her words are more of a statement than a question. She’s already made up her mind, she’s just trying to get me on side. 

Turning my palm upwards, I hold her small hand in mine. Absently skimming my thumb over her wedding rings. A reminder of my lifelong promise to her. Honor, love, cherish. I meant all of those things. Time has somewhat numbed the sting of the valley we endured, but the peaks...oh those peaks, those high times together, the joy of those has never waned. Never ebbing far from the shores of how much I love and adore this woman. 

Michonne has never asked anything unreasonable of me. Even when we were separated, I never felt she was being unfair for shutting me out of her life. Circumstance had boxed me into a corner where the only choice I had, damaged our relationship, hurt her in a way that I can never fully repair. The heart forgives, but the mind never forgets, and since the day that she decided to take another chance on me, to tear up the divorce papers and give us another opportunity to fulfill our destiny together, we have both dedicated each and every moment to having the life we have always wanted. And we do. I have everything. The gorgeous, smart wife. The cute, smart kids. She has given me everything. Can I give her this?

Sipping from my tumbler I suck down another hard gulp of the amber liquid, the smooth roasted flavor soothing over the edges of my nerves. My balls. This woman wants to literally take my balls. 

XXXX

“We trying to go stock here, or high performance?”

“I think high performance. Otherwise how do we justify the cost? If we get to take it that show in Vegas at the end of August, it’s got to be able to compete with some of the bigger garages.”

“Right.” He’s nodding his head, but suddenly pauses for a moment. “You think we’re uh, gonna actually get to work on it though? Have it done by August?”

“Maybe.” Wiping my palm down my face, I give his question some additional thought. Sniffing, twitching my nose at the itchy feeling of my allergies acting up, I lean against one of the metal shelves in my garage. “Maybe not. There’s no way Chonne is gonna let me work in the garage with you there at the same time.”

Daryl grunts in agreement, his head down as he jots down some more notes. “Yep. Same here. With the baby due any day-” Finally raising his head, his image full on the screen of my phone, I can’t help but to stare. “What?”

Waving my hand, I don’t want him to feel self-conscious, so I try to dismiss my rudeness. 

“What?” 

Scratching at my neck, then curling my own hair that’s growing overly long behind my ears, I finally given in. “I just can’t believe you cut your hair. I haven’t seen you with your hair that short since high school. That’s all.”

“Well... thought it might be time.”

“Right. Ok. You didn’t even cut it for your wedding is all I’m saying.”

Just as Daryl is about to say something, his eyes narrowing in that thoughtful way of his, his mouth growing tight as I assume, he’s putting together a few short words to explain. I’ve known him for years, and I recognize the look. Daryl is a man who doesn’t talk a lot. Known more for his loyalty, and his willingness to simply do the things that others aren’t, since meeting Connie, Daryl is full of surprises. Some that I never saw coming. Him getting married was the first one. Especially given that as he witnessed the ups and downs of Michonne’s and my marriage early on, he vowed to never give a woman that much power to make him miserable. I told him he’d just never met the right woman yet. I suppose Connie was it, because as soon as they met at his bar, he was after her. Never once did he let her travel schedule as an actress derail his pursuit, nor did he permit his family’s less than welcome reaction to her bother him. One wedding, and two daughters later, Daryl is a much different man from the surly, self-proclaimed redneck, biker. 

Daryl is a good husband. Taking the time to learn sign language. Turning the management of his bar over to someone else so he could be with Connie wherever she was. Falling in love so hard that on the beach behind our California house, he surprised Connie with an engagement that was so romantic even Michonne gave me the side eye. Daryl is an even better father. A patient father. A girl dad times two. Lindy who just turned six, and Amelia who will be three in November. He can braid hair, and play dolls with the best of them, and upon finding out last year that Amelia is also hearing impaired, has been diligent in teaching her sign language, just as much as Connie does. These women have taken my hardboiled friend, and made him a kinder, gentler, dare I even say softer Daryl Dixon, bringing out the very best of a guy that I thought I already knew everything about. He may still ride a motorcycle, own a bar, and work on old cars, but that doesn’t define him as much as it used to. I suppose this new trimmed look of his is just another indication of this new Daryl.

“Daddy! Me-Me fell off the swing!” Entering the frame of the camera on his iPad, Lindy, a thin, blue eyed girl, who resembles her father with her caramel colored locks, and faintly tanned skin, carries her younger sister in her arms. 

Daryl instantly accepts a crying Amelia from her sister and swings his youngest daughter into his lap. Looking down into her hazel eyes, he swipes her dark curls back from her face. With his palms up, then turning them over in swiping motion, and pointing his index fingers out, Daryl asks in ASL, mouthing words in kind, “What happened?”

Amelia holds up two fingers by her forehead then drops them in a falling motion. 

“How?” he asks aloud, at the same time he holds his fists together, and thumbs up, he twists them against each other. 

In the way her mother and father have taught her, Lindy carefully pronounces her words, in a steady stream, as she also signs, to ensure her little sister can understand. “I might have pushed her too high on the swings. She was going fast. She likes to go fast.”

“Ok.” Placing a few placating kisses on Amelia’s skinned elbow, bringing a bright smile to the little girl’s face, he turns to his oldest daughter and lightly scolds in the calmest voice I’ve ever heard him use. “Hey, not so fast anymore. Ok?”

“Ok, Daddy.”

“Say hi to your Uncle Rick.” Daryl tells his girls, signing the request, just as Amelia turns her tiny freckled face towards the iPad and waves. 

“Hi, Uncle Rick! Where’s RJ?” Lindy asks, the words bursting from her, accompanied by a blush of her cheeks.

“Hey, girls. He’s in the house playing video games. I’ll tell him you said hi.”

“K!” she nods in that cool way, once again reminding me of her father, especially with his new short haircut that allows you to see his features better. Lindy has the same eyes, and bone structure. She looks so much like him that I don’t want to tell Michonne that she was right, recalling that when she was born she held the baby girl and noted in that knowing way of hers that Connie only carried the girl. That baby is all Daryl Dixon. She was right. 

Which leads me to something that has been on my mind since I spoke to Michonne about it yesterday.

“Daryl, you ever, uh... You ever think about family planning?” I ask, attempting to use words that won’t completely give away to the girls what I’m talking about.

“The hell is that?”

“Oooh Daddy said a curse word! I’m telling, Mommy!” Lindy warns, running off to probably do just as she promised.

“Shit.”

“Sorry, man.”

“It’s all good. What are you talking about though?”

“Michonne wants me to get a vasectomy.”

“Oh. Yeah I had one a few months back.”

Frowning, I almost drop my phone, unable to believe what I’m hearing. 

“You never told me that.”

“My balls ain’t none of your business.”

“What the hell? You-” Just as I’m about to fire off a round of questions, Connie waddles into the room, her stomach entering before her. At 37 weeks pregnant, the tiny woman seems to be all belly. Placing her hands on Daryl’s shoulders, she drops her head into the frame and waves at me, then proceeds to first kiss Daryl on the lips, then kisses the top of Amelia’s curls. I wave back, greeting the pretty woman who changed my best friend into someone I’m sure the 18-year-old Daryl Dixon would never recognize. 

Tilting her head at him, then rolling her eyes from the phone screen then back towards Daryl, she signs something that I’m sure translates to pay up, as her hand ends with her palm upturned, fingers wiggling his way. 

“Dammit...” Daryl mutters, closing his eyes in defeat, then reaching for his wallet to gather two single dollar bills and place them in his wife’s hand. 

Connie grins at him as he gives her swollen stomach a gentle rub. After a quiet moment between them, at least quiet to me as they seem to be communicating in a way that belongs only to them, she then waves goodbye my way, and leaves as suddenly as she arrived. 

Watching her shuffle away, Daryl keeps his eyes on his wife’s departing form for a moment, then turns back to the camera and adds quietly, probably noticing that Amelia has fallen asleep in his lap. “Lindy wants me to stop swearing so much. Said it’s not nice. I gotta pay a dollar to the jar every time.”

“How much has Lindy made so far?” I ask, guessing that it’s got to be a pretty hefty sum knowing my friend.

“Almost a hundred dollars. And it’s only been a month.”

“I’d rather do that than get a damned vasectomy.”

“Why?” 

“I don’t know. The idea of it don’t sit right with me I guess.”

“You’re a smart guy. Been to college. Been through it with your old lady. You know how this goes.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Having six kids ain’t easy on a person’s body. The physical responsibility, man. Chonne is a strong woman. She’s got a strong, beautiful body-”

“Hey!”

“I’m just saying. Can’t be easy popping your big-headed babies out every couple of years.” He grumbles as his fingers rest on his chin. “Anyway, it wasn’t bad. I went in, came out. It was done. Now Connie doesn’t have to worry about a pill after Lucas is born. One less thing for her to think about.” Sheepish almost, he dashes his eyes away, his gaze softens, dances somewhere else until his eyes lower to his slumbering daughter, now curled against him. “I’d do anything for her. For them. It’s a small price to pay for what she’s given me.”

Moments pass as I consider his words, and allow them to roll around in my brain. It’s the second day in a row that I’ve been called to think about a perspective different than my own. When Michonne had Joseph and Boden, it was a c-section. A process that awed and frightened me, as I watched Dr. Lynch open my wife’s body, and remove my sons. My twin sons, that weren’t even the first set of twins we had. Joy crashed against fear in that moment, as I clutched Michonne’s hand as she rested behind the curtain that separated her from the chaos of her own body being taken apart to give life. Why had it never occurred to me how much of her physical being that she had given to this family? Obtuseness, and maybe even some odd masculine pride, prevented me from recognizing how minor a vasectomy would be in comparison to the months of pregnancy, and hours of childbirth that Michonne had endured. 

“Anyway,” Daryl continues, breaking the silence, “You’re too damned old for any more kids anyway. Give it a rest, old man. Look how grey your beard is. Might be time for a trim and a shave for you too.”

XXXXX

“Rick, what are you doing up here?” Michonne asks curiously as she climbs up the last rung of the ladder.

Offering her my hand, and taking hold of her elbow, I lift her up into the tree house, pulling her into my arms. “Just wanted some alone time with my girl is all.” I reply, snuggling her closer, dropping my face to inhale a little of the natural scent of her in the skin of her neck. Inching back, smiling down at the bewilderment moving across her face, I delight in my ability to still surprise her after all of these years. 

Reaching her hands up to my face, she palms my cheeks. “You shaved?”

“I trimmed.”

Rolling her hands towards the back of my head, she threads her fingers through my curls at the nape of my neck as she tilts her head in question.

“Just a trim.”

“Better just be a trim. You know I love your curly hair.”

“I know. Was getting a little long. Beard too. Wanted to look nice for you.”

“You always look good to me, Rick.” Lifting on her toes, Michonne gifts me with a series of slow, soft kisses. Just the slightest press of her breasts into my chest, sends my hands departing from their circle around her tiny waist, to land in a hard cup of the cushion of my favorite place. In another pair of leggings, it’s almost like nothing separates me from the plush jiggle of her bottom, and as she stares up at me with delight curling around the light in her wide, coffee eyes, I have to blink to gain control of myself. 

Maybe sensing my desire to please her, Michonne flattens her hands along the planes of my chest, her touch warm. Easy. “Nothing could ever change who you are to me.” She promises, sending my grin soaring, raising my cheeks to animate the squint of my eyes. With a swipe of her thumb across my lips, she mutters, “My Rick...” My name is sexy, smooth and sweet as candy on her lips. Gotdam it! It’s so easy for her to get to me. To wrap me around her finger. “What are you up to, sexy?” Bringing her hands down, she wraps them around my biceps, right where the sleeves of my black t-shirt stop. 

Biting down on my bottom lip, I can’t help but to feel pride, the warmth of arousal brushing through me at her approval and her question. Her use of my name in a possessive way, recalling all of the times she’s moaned it in my ear. Groaned it into a pillow. Screamed it into the sticky, sex kissed air. 

Stepping towards her, I ease her backwards until she meets the wall. With my hand pressed to the wall above her head, I angle my lips to her ear. “Take off your clothes.”

Michonne doesn’t answer. Instead her eyes roam the expanse of the old tree house, inventorying everything I’ve done to set the mood. From the pile of blankets and pillows I’ve neatly laid across the wooden planks, to the candles encased in mason jars that dim the room in flickering flames, soft and romantic. Music seems to have finally caught her attention, a subtle background soundtrack of R&B oldies that the kids selected from a Spotify playlist.

“Hmm, I'mma be here night after night to  
Feel your loving arms around me  
Baby, baby, baby, baby, you make it all right  
No one but you baby, can make me feel  
The way you make me, make me, make me feel, oh...”

“The blankets?” 

“I did that.”

“The candles?”

“That’s me too.”

“The music?”

“The kids helped.” I shrug, narrowing my gaze on her and licking at my lips, feeling like the big bad wolf ready to devour my prey. 

“Ah.”

“Now take off your clothes.” Stepping back, I give her some room to follow my command just as the sound of rain begins pelting the planks of the treehouse roof with a melody to underscore the romantic moment. Indecision seems to be preventing her from following my orders, and in the back of my mind I put a pin in it, setting a reminder that a few swats to her luscious behind should be just enough punishment for that bit of hesitation. 

Toying with the buttons of what I recognize as one of my shirts, Michonne pushes a few through their holes, but halts her movements, “The kids are...?”

“Next door with your parents. Boys are without their devices for one week, and Judith and Cameron are allowed to have one supervised movie a week.” Gesturing for her hands to continue their movements, I wait for her to comply and then I pull at the back of my t-shirt, hoisting it over my head. “I called to schedule the vasectomy.”

Michonne’s eyes grow wide as saucers, surprise apparent in their steady blink. “What?”

“You heard me. I’ll take care of it. I’ve got you.” Leveling my gaze at her, I don’t look away. I want her to see how contrite I am that I reacted so poorly to her initial request. “I’m sorry.”

With an imperceptible shake of her head, she declares in a careful, but clear tone, “You don’t have to be.”

My fingers are thumping against my belt buckle. I’m overwhelmed briefly by my love for her. How easy this feeling has always been. Even when it hurt to love her this much. Its ferocity clouds everything else. Nothing matters when Michonne looks at me like this. Has faith in me, even in my flaws. 

“I love you, Chonne.”

“I love you too, Rick.”

“I love you more, sweetheart.” I promise. And I mean it. Every word, every day. 

Michonne nods. I guess she finds my answer pleasing if the sexy smile on her pretty face, and the reanimation of her fingers to hurriedly undress is any indication. 

Once she’s pushed the shirt down her arms and revealed that she’s braless, I can sense my heart rate speeding up, pulse thumping loudly in my ears. Full and round, perky but with just the right amount of plumpness, Michonne’s breasts are perfect. And her nipples are the most delicious little chocolate cherries, sitting right atop of them, begging for my lips to suckle and bite them. My mouth waters as lust ushers me forward, a primal call to devour what’s mine. But I want to take my time with her. I want us to have this time alone together, and make the most of it. Make it last forever.

This quarantine hasn’t just taken a sense of safety, or certainty from us, but it has also absconded with the cadence of our regular time together. The formula of our daily lives has been thrown into a slowed down, chopped and screwed, management of kids, chores, cooking and grocery shopping. It’s no wonder that Michonne has been frazzled, ceaselessly cleaning. It’s so apparent why my thinking has been disconnected and offline, so thrown from its normal course that I couldn’t see past my nose to recognize that when my wife made the vasectomy request of me, I should have thought first, and spoke later. When my father called for help out on the farm with the horses, I should have consulted with my wife first, and then decided what to do. Instead of marching off to murder Cameron at the slightest thought of him and Judith, I should have cooled off, given myself a chance to think and maybe see a differing perspective from my own first. It’s the way I usually work. The way we usually work. Cohesive. Coherent. As a team. 

I want to get us back there though, steal back from this pandemic the confident surety of our bond. Framing her angelic round face in my hands, I allow my instincts to take over, and I passionately kiss my wife. Deeply. My tongue instantly finds the sweetness of her mouth, rolling and dancing, tangling with hers. Tasting her, the thrill emboldens me, lights my fire in a way that only this woman has ever been able to do. The effect of the music and my kiss must be enflaming Michonne in much the same way. Her lithe fingers grasp, and skim across my chest, and before I know it, they’re down into the waist of my jeans, fisting my cock in her greedy hand.

Gasping, the grip of her hand is wonderous, heady in its aggressive handling of the pulsing steel that once hung limp between my thighs. Hurriedly, I’m pushing at the skintight material of her leggings, until I have unwrapped the gift of her, and bunched them at her ankles. On my knees in front of Michonne, I catch the faintest hint of her arousal, and like a raging bull its sweet musk sends me into a frenzy. Pushing my face into the apex of her thighs, the curls tickling my nose as I inch my tongue forward to lick up the seam of her womanhood. 

Arching her back away from the wall, Michonne’s voice is a low, throating moan. “Oh...Rick...” Pitching forward, her hands land on my shoulders and catch her form, holding her up just enough for me to seat her on my face. Lifting one leg up and out, I pull her down until the petals of her pussy are flush against my lips and beard. 

My tongue finds her already sopping, sticky, and I delight in its showering baptism that bathes my face. Drenches my mouth in her excitement, as her excited squeals are a competent match for Mariah Carey’s lilting voice that begs to make it last forever. 

“Your touch is wonderful (So wonderful)  
Your love is so marvelous  
Joy, that's what I feel  
When I'm with you, yeah (Yeah)  
Nothing, no one (No one, boy)  
Could compare to what we have (Oh no, baby)  
Love, it feels so good  
I'm so glad you're mine, oh...”

Holding Michonne’s thigh, I can feel the tremble that starts in the quivering flesh, and bolts, faster than lightening, in tight waves throughout her body. Her screams are the most glorious sound to my ears and cause an arc of pain in my dick. I want to be inside of her so bad, the ache stiffening my manhood is unbearable, and I can’t wait any longer. I can’t be greedy I think, as I turn my beautiful wife and lower her gently to the pallet of blankets. I won’t ravage her. It’s been a long couple of days here recently, the physical and emotional strain tremendous. But dammit I want just a sample, a small piece of the ecstasy that’s wrecking her right now. 

Resting on her back, Michonne’s eyes slowly open, the hazy glaze of desire making her blinks lazy, the sweep of her thick lashes seductive. Curling her index finger to beckon me towards her, everything about her right now speaks sex. Calls to the basest of my most carnal instincts, and as her legs angle themselves in a bend, and her thighs widen, showcasing her glistening, wet jewel, I set my own passion free to have my way with her. 

Easing between her thighs, Michonne doesn’t give me a second to calm down. No, she’s ready, she’s still flying high on the aftershocks of her first orgasm. Pulling my face down to hers, she’s licking and sucking at my lips, kissing me as though nothing else in the world was as important as this moment right now. And I’m putty in her arms, enslaved by my rampant addiction to everything Michonne. In that moment, when the world is only her, I allow my cock to sink. Submerge. Drown in the depths of her. 

Pleasure, sure and sweet, drugs me. Sequesters me in a corner of my brain where only the thrust of my cock into my wife is a thing of consequence. Where the only thing I can hear is the sound of her panting, whispering filthy commands, and releasing breathy pleas into my ear. Puffs of air deliver her whimpering into the sticky air, humid with the perfume of our lovemaking, and the drip of steady rain drops from a cloudy Georgia sky.

“Oh damn, Chonne, you feel so fucking good, babe! So fucking good... Keep moving your ass like that.” I praise and I beg, both having the desired effect of her continuing to lift her hips to meet every one of my grinding lunges. The thrill of it, skipping along my spine, doesn’t satisfy me. I want more. No, I need more. Of her. It’s always been that way for me. My body craving full dominion over every inch of her. The pleasure, the love she gives me making me gluttonous beyond mere insanity, my desire to languish within her stronger than any impulse I’ve ever known. I could remain here, sweaty, voracious, between her thighs forever. 

Curling my hands beneath her back, hooking them over her shoulders, and with her legs high over my own shoulders, the penetration into Michonne at this angle is exquisite. There’s a soft, spongy bit, deep inside that I can sense the head of my cock inch closer and closer to with every push. Slowing my thrusts to a steady, paced cadence, the dragging in and out is the most delicious torture. 

Breasts bouncing wildly with every kiss of our hips, Michonne appears hypnotized, subdued, indulged by yet another orgasm, this one gripping her in a flash, her head falling back as though its intensity was wholly unexpected. Her fingers, stiff as though they are electrified, reach for me, their grasp desperate to find something to ground her. Instead they wander, skittering along the sweaty column of my neck, over my throat. Aimlessly pressing along my flesh, fanning the flames of my own stoked fire. A blaze that torches high in my groin, ready to set every inch of my body soaring high, higher still with each utterance of my name on her lips. Every scream of delight. 

“Rick! Rick! Ah...ah...ahhh...” she moans, the release of the orgasm that was riding her, finally releasing its stranglehold of her faculties. It’s a rushing gush that washes my cock with her cum. I watch the play of emotions grip and free her pretty features. Tighten her lithe muscles beneath the velvety expanse of her ebony skin. Then loosen, liberate her from the tease of my cock still stirring and grinding, pushing and pulling against the squeeze of her canal. 

Heaving, gasping Michonne’s head is still thrown back. God help me, I should cum already, let her rest. But I can’t. Something in me won’t allow me to disconnect from her. And the way she’s staring at me now, licking hungrily at her lips. Palms gliding at the angles that cut at my hips, narrowing towards my dick. I don’t let up. One of her legs falls listlessly to my hip, hooking over the crook of my arm. The other I hold high in my grasp, bringing her foot to my lips. Kissing at her ankle, I witness the light in her eyes come alive again at the tickle of my tongue against her skin. 

I’ve never been a foot man. Not really. But as with everything about this woman, I find beauty in the simplest of things. Dainty, her toes, long, painted a shocking pink, catch my eye. Kissing her calf, her ankle again, I continue to wave my hips, and suckle my wife’s toes as I watch her supple womanhood swallow every inch of my cock. 

Keening, a low humming whine emits from Michonne, just as the strangling grip of my own climax quickens my pace, until with a final few hard rams of my hips, I release my cum into my wife’s womb. It’s an enchanting fire that captivates me as she juts against me, kissing her groin against mine and joins me, riding the propelling explosion of my orgasm, with another one of her own. 

XXXX

“There is no greater love  
Than what I feel for you  
No sweeter song, no heart so true...”

Croons Amy Winehouse, her haunting vocals blanketing Michonne and I as we lay tangled in the blankets as sleep beckons us to fall into slumber. She’s in her favorite position, draped over my body, with her head nestled beneath my chin. Legs intertwined, one foot mindlessly drags against my calf, as I feel the play of the pads of her fingers across my collarbone. 

“Rick?”

“Yeah?”

“I wasn’t mad at you or anything. You didn’t have anything to apologize for.”

“Yeah. I know you weren’t mad, but...” I blow out a frustrated breath. I know what I want to say, but the words... Running my fingers through the downy softness of her locs, I suck my lips in between my teeth to still myself until the right words gather. “We deserve the best from each other. Do you know what I mean, Chonne?”

“No, Rick, not really.” She chuckles, honest and blunt in her response. 

Laughing, I admire her ability to always be straightforward with me. “You are the closest person in the world to me. Which means you have the ability more than anyone to wound me. So... I just think, with that kind of power, I- I have to be mindful of that. When you ask something of me, or you expect something of me, I have to at least try to be my best self. No one in this world deserves the best version of Rick more than Michonne.”

“I get that. And I think I do get the best version of you. It’s why I love you.” Raising to her knees, Michonne rests her bottom in my lap. “You’re always much harder on yourself than I am on you, Rick. I knew it wasn’t going to be easy for you to say yes to the vasectomy. I know you. I knew you would be upset if you even thought Cameron and Judith liked each other. I know you.” Pressing her index finger to my chest, she taps right above my heart. “But I know it’s because you operate from a visceral place. You love hard. You protect hard. You’re a man of action, but also a little stubborn in how you think or feel. But you never want to hurt those you love. I know you. And I’m lucky to have you. We’re lucky to have you.” She proclaims, then leans forward to rest her head on my chest, a series of sugary sweet kisses replace the taps of her finger, placing a seal on my heart.

Gulping, swallowing down the lump of emotion in my throat, I allow the words of Amy Winehouse to leave it at that. Because of course, as usual, Michonne is right. Though if you ask me, I’m the lucky one.

“You're the sweetest thing  
I have ever known  
And to think that you are mine, you are mine alone...”


	4. Chapter 4 - Michonne

Chapter 4 – Michonne

“Are we going to just keep hiding from the kids out here every night, Rick?”

“Not hiding. Decompressing.” 

“Hiding.”

“Maybe.”

“Is it wrong that we want to hide? They are our children. We made them. We love them.”

“Completely reasonable. There’s more of them than there are of us.”

“True. And just think...you wanted more.”

“I didn’t say I wanted more, Chonne.”

“You weren’t against it, Rick.”

“What can I say? Makin’ babies with you is a hell of a lot of fun.” Rick teases, with a tight grip on my bottom. He squeezes and pulls me up a little higher on top of him, our groins kissing in just the right place. 

Lifting my head, I leave a few pecks on the scruff of his bearded jaws, “At least you have seen reason now and you’re going to have the procedure.”

“Yeah...”

“Mom!” Judith hollers from the back porch, her silhouette and rounded afro of curls outlined in the doorway. “Your phone is ringing. Want me to bring it to you?”

“Yes please.” I answer, trying to modulate my voice from being too loud and breaking the serene silence of the wooded yard. 

Lazily, with slow, dragging strokes, Rick continues to strum his fingers up and down my back. We’ve been outside in the hammock back by the tree line at the end of our yard for over an hour. What started off as just a quick breather once the babies were down for bed a few weeks ago, turned into a nightly ritual, weather permitting. Tonight, instead of sitting out on the front porch swing to watch other couples and families strolling the neighborhood to battle the stir crazy that seems to be permeating all of our psyches after weeks in the house, we decided to settle down for the night in the hammock in the back. 

Hanging between two large oak trees that provide much of the shade bordering the back fence, the hammock is an addition to the yard that we installed when we first moved here, and Rick and his father built a monstrous play set for the kids. It was at first solely something for Rick. Since he didn’t have an office, just an overcrowded garage that he shared with the kids’ bikes and such, and a toolshed that was barely big enough for him to turn around in, I thought it would be nice for him to have a place that was just his. To relax. To think. I had that. My office was quite often my sanctuary. The one place in the house that belonged to only me, and allowed me to be free and unencumbered enough to write and create. I wanted that for Rick, because even though he didn’t have one job that required he sit at a desk and write and create, he was a creative, an artist with what he was able to do with wood, and I understood how important it was for him to be able to connect with that part of himself in a place that was all his own. 

So that’s what the hammock used to be. Rick’s place. There is a lot of shade back here, and because of the landscaping of flowers, bushes, and ornamental grass that my wonderful father in law suggested, it really is a little hideaway. But over time, as Rick often does, he can’t seem to not share what’s his, with me. I purposely stayed away. I would bring him sweet tea, or a beer to help him settle in. Cupcakes to feed his sweet tooth. Things to keep him comfortable and help him turn his brain off. But I wouldn’t linger on my little deliveries. And I wouldn’t permit the kids to go out there and bother him, ask for rides to friends’ houses, or to fix something they broke. 

Eventually though, Rick couldn’t seem to stand the seclusion. He would send brief, cryptic texts, ‘come here’, ‘can you bring me a book’. And when I would? Ultimately as I would try to quietly slip away, regifting him back his alone time, he would undoubtedly find my wrist, my hand, a piece of me, and hold on. Pulling me back. Silently asking with his touch, to join him in his sanctuary. So, I did. I do. I suppose, that just like right now, Rick finds his peace with me, and I have to admit, there is nothing sexier than that. Not even that cocky strut of his. Not even those lips that have kissed and sucked every part of my body. Not even those cool blue eyes that have studied and surveyed all of me, created an inventory of our time together. Absolutely nothing compares to the very fact that this man, even with a house full of kids, and a life that is full of happiness and success, gets his peace from me. Wow.

As Rick continues to use his bare foot to drag across the grass beneath the hammock, causing the padded netting to gently carry us with the night’s breeze, back and forth. After a glass of a sweet red wine, that the neighborhood wine fairy secretly gifted to our front porch, I can feel myself growing drowsy. Hypnotized by the lulling quiet, with only the strumming buzz of nature’s accompaniment, my eyelids begin their descent until the voice of my daughter pierces my tranquility.

“Here’s your phone, Mom.” Judith offers, her hand outstretched to deliver the device to me. “I think it’s Uncle Glenn.”

“Thank you, Jude.”

“No problem, Mom. Hey, since you guys seem to be in a good mood, can Cameron come over to watch Tiger King with Dre, Carl, and me? That dude is crazy!”

I hear Judith make this query, her voice higher pitched, halting and nervous, as though she’s anticipating a swift no from her father. 

It doesn’t immediately come though, and with my phone vibrating over and over in my hand I get drawn away from that expectation as well. Glancing down at my phone my attention is distracted as I’m reading through a series of lengthy text messages from my little brother, who is now my agent. He has an odd habit of leaving not just a voicemail but also a text if he can’t reach you. Says he needs to always have a record of communication. As my eyes scan through the words, gathering the gist of what Glenn is asking, I can only make out a bit of Judith and Rick’s conversation, as he patiently tosses out only a few short queries, to which she excitedly answers. Reading over the final sentence of the last message, I hear Rick’s unwilling acquiescence to Judith’s request. 

“Ok, Jude, fine. But not an all-night thing. When your mother and I go to bed, the house is closed for the night. Cameron has to go back next door. And I don’t want any negotiations after that. Alright?”

“Sure, Daddy, thank you. Cameron is really depressed with his parents’ diagnosis.”

“Yeah, I know. It’s a tough hit. They’re good people, I’m sure they will beat this.”

“Will you also come in and make us some of your hot sauce popcorn, Daddy? It’s a fave.”

“Later. Give your mama and I just a little longer. Then I’ll come make it for you guys.”

“Sweet! Thanks, Daddy!” She blurts, reverting to calling Rick the more affectionate ‘Daddy’ instead of ‘Dad’. It’s an endearment that she left behind shortly after turning ten, but that she still pulls out every once in a while, just to lay it on extra thick for Rick, who eats it up every time. Leaning down, Judith kisses him on the cheek first, then leaves a quick peck on my forehead before bopping towards my parents’ house, presumably to retrieve Cameron now that she’s gotten the ok from her father. 

“You are such a sucker for that little girl.”

“I know. She’s had me since day one.”

“Sucker.”

“Chonne, I’m not gonna lie, I feel bad for Cameron. I may have been a little harsh with him, but hearing that both of his parents tested positive for Covid while they are still in Spain, is a rough thing for anyone to deal with. Let alone a 17-year-old kid.”

“Oh, now he’s a kid? A few weeks ago he was a grown man preying on your baby girl.”

Seemingly struggling with some discomfort, Rick turns a bit, his gaze somewhere else for a moment. While he’s thinking, mind briefly traveling off somewhere else, perhaps to a time when he was a young man with a sick parent, I steal this time to admire his side profile. The classic squaring of his jaw covered with a thatch of grey and black hair. The slope of his long nose, a fitting touch to break up all the masculine pretty of his well-proportioned face. And of course, the droopy curls that refuse to stay off his forehead, and instead flirt with the frown of his eyebrows, and the long spike of his eyelashes. 

Finally, he corrals whatever is crowding his thoughts. “Well, he’s still too damned old for Judith, but he needs friends, and distractions right now. It’s damn hard to breathe with that kind of uncertainty heavy on your chest, Chonne. Any time away from that...pressure is good. Him, Judith, Andre, and Carl have been friends for a very long time. Whatever the hell the Tiger King is might be just the bit of fun he needs.”

As usual, Rick said a mouthful without even saying that much at all. This family is familiar with death’s specter, hauntingly lingering, biding its time until just the very hint of its coldness would no longer spare your mother. Your grandfather. The people you love. Rick’s mother may have escaped its clutches for now, but the ghost of her fight against it shadows Rick’s face, and darkens the blue of his eyes to a frigid blue-gray.

Eye contact is still not given to me, as Rick releases a heavy sigh, the heat of his breath warming my face. Instantly, my fingers find his face. Their strokes airy, easy against his skin. Scraping gently between his eyebrows to encourage him to release his frown, then nudging slightly to turn his face towards mine. 

Grinning at him, I peck his lips as he looks down at me with confusion, as though he has suddenly returned from a journey somewhere else to find me surprisingly in his lap.

“Do you know what this Tiger King is? Some sort of Tarzan kinda thing?”

Amused, I can’t help the mirth teasing my lips into a grin. “Oh, you don’t want to know what the Tiger King is about.”

“Why?”

“Cause it’s just a whole lot of hillbilly silliness. I do feel bad for the animals though.”

“Huh. So, it’s a zoo thing? I know you don’t really like zoos and such.”

“No, not really about a zoo.” Scrunching my face, I attempt to find the words to explain to Rick what this mess is. “But it is kind of about a dude who has tigers and whatnot. Like a zoo, a little bit.”

“Oh yeah? He’s a king though?”

“No. he thought he was though. I think.”

“Sounds a bit like your old pal Ezekiel to me. Sure it ain’t him?”

There is a slight chuckle in Rick’s voice at the end of that question, but the bass in his tone also lets me know he’s asking in all seriousness. 

I try to laugh off his sudden question, the terse quickness of its delivery catching me off guard, making my shaky response sound tiny, guilty, almost false on my own tongue though I know it’s not. “No. It’s...it’s not him.”

“Hm.”

Over the years, I haven’t really had contact with Ezekiel, with the exception of the few times we have run across each other at different cons, and industry events. There was the one time I saw him at San Diego Comic Con with RJ a few years back, Carol following closely by his side, and he offered RJ a stuffed tiger. Outside of that awkward encounter where he gave me the industry approved fake hug and peck on the cheek, I have mainly seen him on television. A spectator like the rest of the world, watching as his show blew up internationally, with him becoming very well-known as he traveled the world with his real tiger co-worker, Shiva. 

While his presence as a part of our history is always there, kind of just lurking in the background, we don’t talk about him. Not Rick and I, nor the kids. It’s not a conscious choice to avoid him or anything, and actually every once in awhile Andre or Carl might make a reference to something they remember about him, or something they saw of him on the internet. Never really anything substantive, just a passing mention about that guy Mom used to know. Or the guy who pretends to be a king with the tiger. 

Pulling my attention fully away from the message on my phone, I sit up a little more, wanting to more fully see Rick’s face. Focus narrowed in on the sky above, Rick doesn’t give me eye contact at first. He’s diverted his gaze from mine again. Lips downturned in a frown. Features, tight, pensive. Memories are riding him, darkening his mood away from the cool calm of our evening ritual. Every so often this happens. Not just to Rick but to me as well. It’s just the dredging of things left unsaid. Painful moments we would prefer forgotten, buried under the sands of time. 

Tentative, but wanting, no needing to reach my husband, to reconnect with him. Bring his frustration over so many things back down from the stratosphere, I direct the pads of my fingers to first rub slow circles over his chest. Stoking the warmth in his taut skin. Massaging the hard muscle that ripples just under the tufts of fine chest hair beneath his t-shirt, I nestle my face into the crook of his neck and breathe him in. Savor the smell of Rick. The fragrance that is unique to the man I love. Woodsy. Strong. Masculine. I steal heavy whiffs of him, beading my nipples, driving my desire for him and the rampant urge to get even closer to him, to push my heated form into his. 

Rick’s body begins to lose some of its stiffness, relaxation overcoming him. His fingers begin their pacing strums along the column of my spine again. His leg that was once languid along the side of the hammock raises to wrap around mine, locking me in place on top of him. Without much thought, our bodies respond as they always do when we are like this, intertwined, pheromones raging. Kisses are dotted along his neck. Teeth bite and nip, suck, pull at his stubbled flesh as my name rasps along his vocal cords in a needy growl, heavy with emotion. 

“Michonne...”

“Baby...”

“What are you doing, woman?” Rick asks, his free hand coming up to grab a handful of my locs and lift my head, forcing me to face him. 

With a pout, lips slightly parted as thin pants escape, I can barely gather my wits to answer him. Swallowing, I lick at my lips and watch as his beautiful blue eyes drop to my mouth. Got him. “Tasting my husband.” Quirking my eyebrow, I allow the innuendo to fall in the air, charged and electric. 

“Is that right?” he questions, the way he phrased it more rhetorical than anything.

Studying my face for a moment, his lips tick at the corners, flirting with a smile. They never fully do though. Instead it’s all in his eyes. The darkened sapphire that dances with bright grayish glints of the moon, cool, subdued. He doesn’t know what to say. How to proceed. I think he’s upset that he brought up Ezekiel, but he’s curious about the manner in which I answered him. 

Rick is such an integral part of my life, I know him like I know myself. And I know when something wounds him, gets him off balance like he is right now. And I guess, because of what we’ve been through, something in me will never let it flourish. I can’t. When we argue, which is rare anyway, it hurts me twice. Once because we are arguing, and twice because Rick is hurt or upset. Rick never lets us go to bed angry with each other. Never. He won’t even give me the space to be mad at him. 

The last time we argued, it was about money, and me wanting to buy the boys a car for their sixteenth birthday. Rick was, and still is adamant that they work on the farm for a summer to earn a car that they will have to share. I didn’t think they needed to do all of that when I could easily just go buy them a car without the hassle. Rick argued that because I grew up spoiled, with doctors for parents, that I forgot that hard work builds character a lot better than just being handed everything. Of course, that bubbled up into a larger argument about me working hard for everything I have. It got kind of ugly. But what marks that disagreement, just like with every single one we have had since we got back together, was that it didn’t last very long. I left, taking off on foot to walk around the block. Just needing a little space. Rick doesn’t believe in space between us though, not like that. As he put it, with frustration clogging his throat with emotion as he waited on the porch for me to return, we don’t let little things drive us apart. Not anymore. And on that damp night, as my husband grabbed my hand and led me back into our home, I agreed with him. We don’t let anything get between us. Nothing. Because, this man is a part of me, and I’m a part of him. 

“That’s right.”

“You like the way your man tastes?”

“Absolutely.” I declare, the word lingering in the press of my lips to his. “Matter of fact, I’m about to take him in the house, and taste my favorite part of him right now.”

Grinning, whatever had sobered his mood has moved on, and I can see the hint of a blush coloring his cheeks beneath his beard. “What’s your favorite part of your husband to taste, sweetheart?”

Without a word, my fingers walk themselves down past the waistband of his sweats and into his boxers. Just as I’m wrapping my hands around his length, my phone goes off with what I recognize as Glenn’s ringer, ‘Morning Sunrise’ by Weldon Irvine, an artist that we were both inundated with in our youth thanks to our parents. Despite the fact that the album from this song came out in 1979, it is as much the soundtrack of our youth as Jay Z or Biggie, recalling Saturday mornings and afternoons spent on chores. Long road trips to visit relatives, and family reunions filled with love and laughter. 

I know why Glenn is calling back so quickly. What he has to talk to Rick and I about is a big deal, and while I really do want to take my husband in the house and have my way with him, I think Rick should hear what Glenn has to say first. 

Pressing my thumb to the illuminated screen to answer Glenn’s call on speaker with my unoccupied hand, I keep a nice firm handful of my husband in the other. 

“Hi Glenn, I just saw your text.”

“Then why didn’t you call me back?”

“I was...busy.” I answer, drawing it out, and eliciting a round of snickers from Rick who seems content massaging his strong hands in my hair. His fingers are heaven on my scalp, and I allow myself to become soft and pliant in his hold.

“Well is Rick there? Wait, what am I saying, of course he is. You two are always wrapped around each other.”

“Isn’t that how married people should be?” I ask, my voice low and breathy as Rick’s fingers continue with their magic, and I can feel his cock growing harder in my palm.

“Maggie and I give each other a little more space. That’s why we don’t have a basketball team plus one.”

“Whatever floats your boat, little brother.”

“Anyway, I didn’t call you to talk about marriage. I called to follow up on my text. These people would like an answer soon. They are scrambling for new content right now. With new shows not filming because of the virus, they need something to keep viewers.”

“And they think that a reality show about Rick and me is what the public needs?”

“A what?!” Rick chimes in, his hands freezing, finally getting somewhat up to speed on why Glenn is calling. 

“Ok so let’s start from the beginning. Do you guys remember when they did that behind the scenes feature on the last season of Zombie Slayer?”

“Yeah, so?” we both respond in confused unison, smiling at our shared reactions. 

“Well, when the studio released it online after the show ended, it got almost as many hits as the finale did.”

“That’s not surprising, Glenn, a lot of people like to see how the sausage is made. BTS features are popular.”

“True, Michonne, you’re right about that. But, the marketing team over at the studio was reviewing comments on the video clips on YouTube. Apparently, they do that, visit some of the fandom sites, hit social media, just to see what people think.”

“My show has been off the air for over a year though, Glenn.”

“Yes, but it is the most popular show they have ever had. And with you partnering with Marvel, you really are hot right now. So, in all of that looking and analyzing they found a few interesting things. The first thing is that you by yourself are very popular, Michonne, but when you throw Rick and the kids in there you are even hotter. Women look up to you. You’re black, a mother, a wife, and this kick ass comic artist and storyteller in a male dominated world. Men think you’re sexy. And according to the comments, Rick is this handsome, rugged, southern Marlboro Man, who supports his wife and takes care of his kids. A lot of super cute kids. People are very interested in you guys because you’re like them, relatable, but also different. The studio wants to capitalize on that if you’re willing.”

“Ok, wait, but we can’t have a filming crew in the house. How do we social distance with a house full of strangers, Glenn?”

“You can shoot it on your iPad. You have one, and I know the kids have the proper lighting because I bought it for them when I got them those Go Pros for Christmas last year.”

“No.”

“What do you mean no, Rick? This is an amazing opportunity!” With his voice pitching higher, Glenn is clearly caught off guard by Rick’s brief answer. He’s a man of few words, but he normally means what he says when he does have something to say. 

“I mean, we don’t have anything to show the world about us, and I’m not putting my wife and kids out there for public consumption.” Shrugging his shoulders as though Glenn can see him, and shaking his head, Rick gives him his final answer. “No.”

Hearing the finality in Rick’s answer, Glenn directs his pleas to me. “Michonne! Come on! You have to see what this can do you for your brand.”

“Glenn, I think that this is an interesting opportunity, but I agree with Rick. I don’t really want cameras following my family around. There are a lot of us, and we are all in the house together for who knows how long. We may not all be on our best behavior right now. I don’t mind sharing some of my life, but this feels too invasive.”

“Ok, ok, wait what if we could come up with some terms that we could counter with to the studio? Let them know that there are conditions that will have to be met for you and the family to participate. You know, when I mentioned to them that Rick and Daryl rehab old cars, they are even interested in a spinoff show for them just around that. Think about it, Daryl and Connie and their family are just as interesting as you guys are. We can make this work for a lot of people, guys.”

Rick is back to staring at the sky again, his hands no longer on me, simply folded behind his head. While his answer is no, I wonder if his pensive posturing doesn’t read something a little different. 

“Glenn, I don’t-”

“Michonne, just you and Rick think about it ok? Really think about it. This could be huge for you, and for you too, Rick. This is an opportunity to show the world that marriages like yours where people have this epic love for each other, and want to be together a nauseating amount, and breed like rabbits, and balance busy lives, and seem to be complete opposites, exist. And...they are willing to give me a producer’s credit here, Michonne. You know I’ve been trying to get...somewhere. To do more.”

“Hm. More.” Rick mumbles, as though those were the only words that seemed to have caught his attention. 

My eyes skip from Rick and back to my phone, unsure of how to proceed, until Rick decides for me. 

“Alright, Glenn, we’ll consider it. Goodnight, man.”

A pregnant pause rests between us in the aftermath of the call, and we are back to where we were before Judith brought me my phone. Just a husband and wife, swaying in a hammock, on a cool night in Georgia. Moving with the breeze. Back and forth.

XXXX

“And I mean, this dude is serious, Mom. Like he’s wearing these glittery shirts, and boots, and a gun, and like fake singing country songs.”

“Country songs?”

“Yes! Not like the old timey ones that Dad likes. But, like these ones he made up about the lady who he thinks killed her husband.”

Shaking a little garlic powder into the bowl in front of me, I frown at how ridiculous all of what Judith is detailing to me about the Tiger King seems. “Did she kill her husband?”

“Probably. And Cameron said he has some cousins who live in Florida who are kinda like the Tiger King folks, like... fighting alligators and stuff.”

“Really? I didn’t know that.”

“Yep. His mom’s folks.”

“Wow. How is Cameron?” I inquire, genuinely wondering how the young man is doing. Since his father called to tell us that they are self-isolating in Spain since they have both contracted the Covid virus, and are not sure when they will be allowed back into the States, Cameron has not been his usual self. He’s usually mixing it up with the boys, watching videos or laughing at memes with Judith. But, now he’s quiet, more reserved. This morning when he came over for breakfast, he didn’t eat his usual four pancakes. Just a few bites of scrambled eggs. 

More odd than all of that, when I asked him after breakfast if he would like for me to trim his hair back from his eyes, even as Carl grimaced knowing that he’s due for a lot more than the trim his father gave him recently, Cameron who also loves his hair kind of long, simply nodded and agreed. A soft, ‘yes please’, followed by a hug and a thank you, was his unexpected response. Cameron has been as much my kid as my own are, but he’s never really hugged me and I’ve never really hugged him, until now. Towering over me, with a dusting of fine, dark whiskers on his lip and cheeks, I couldn’t help but to reach up and swipe the whisps of his hair back from his freckled face, and offer him the most sincere and loving smile I could muster for the boy. I know that Rick doesn’t really still see the young kid who fell in with our family as a consequence of being on my television show for so long, but a man interested in his daughter, but witnessing the sadness cast afloat in his brown eyes, my maternal instincts wouldn’t allow me to do anything but to offer him another hug, and a few words of assurance that everything will be ok. It’s the least I could do, and what I would hope anyone else would do for my kids were the tables turned. 

Biting at her thumb nail, Judith seems to give my question some serious thought, then finally answers. “You can tell he’s thinking about his parents. But, he doesn’t want to. He wants to be um...distracted, I think. He’s outside with Grandpa playing two on two against Andre and Carl right now. He never plays basketball.”

“Yeah, I’ve never known him to play basketball at all.”

Turning towards me, Judith continues, “And he doesn’t want to talk about how he feels. He just wants to do stuff. Like go from thing to thing. We watched the Tiger King show, then he wanted to play video games, then he went back next door to sleep. But when I asked him if he wanted to talk about his parents and stuff, like how he felt, he just told me no. Mom, Cameron never tells me no. We talk all the time! About everything!” Judith’s tone is pitching a little high, brimming with emotion, and as she continues to pick at her thumb and the chipping nail polish, I can see how much she cares for her friend. 

“Jude, give him a little space, honey. This is very difficult. He’s used to not being with his parents all the time, but he’s not used to the idea that he might never be with them again. There is just a lot of uncertainty for him to work through right now. The best you can do is support your friend, and be ready to talk when he is. And-” I stop abruptly, catching my son’s actions out of the corner of my eye, “RJ, please don’t give the dog any of these cookies. Chocolate is not ok for dogs.”

“But...look how he’s staring.” RJ gestures to Ruff who dutifully sits at the corner of the island, directly at RJ’s feet, waiting on what would usually be a treat from his hand to the dog’s waiting mouth. “He loves cookies, Mom.”

“I know, but the vet said to not let him eat chocolate. Remember when he found that stash in my bag in my office. He was sick and throwing up-”

“Pooping, RJ. Remember how much pooping he was doing everywhere?” Judith adds, a grimace accompanying the downturn of her mouth.

Slapping his hands over his eyes dramatically, RJ groans, “Uggggh! So much poop!”

“Exactly. So, no chocolate chip cookies for the dog.” I conclude, smashing my hands through the meatloaf I’m preparing for dinner. “Jude, honey, can you hand me the garlic breadcrumbs please. I almost forgot them.”

Turning towards the pantry, Judith rubs her hands on a towel, freeing them of the leftover dough from the cookies her and RJ are making. “That’s not like you, Mom.”

“Hm? What’s not like me?”

“Being forgetful.”

“Oh! Yeah... Just a lot on my mind today.”

“Like what?” She asks, her eyes worriedly seeking mine as she places the container of breadcrumbs to my right side. “Is... Is everything ok?”

Swiveling my head to catch her eyes still trying to find mine, I give her what I hope is an assuring smile. “Yeah. Everything is fine.”

“Would you tell me, Mom. Like... if something was up with Cameron’s parents, or with the grands or something?” Judith edges closer and whispers to me, her gaze quickly dashing from where RJ is concentrating on explaining to the salivating dog why he can’t have these cookies, but he will get him other cookies. 

“Of course, I would, Jude. You know your father and I don’t do secrets.”

Releasing the pent-up tension in her thin frame, Judith blows out the breath she was holding. “Then what’s wrong?”

Focusing on the mashing twist of my fingers through the meat, I think over whether or not to mention to her Glenn’s proposal. As I’m giving it some thought, Rick ambles into the kitchen with a baby in each arm and quickly deposits them in their own highchairs. 

“Hey, Dad, you’re just in time for Mom to tell me what’s got her almost forgetting to put the breadcrumbs in her meatloaf.”

Glancing at me from over his shoulder as he snaps the highchair table in place in front of Boden, he furrows his brow at me in question. “What? That never happens. Especially when you cook.”

“Right! That’s what I said too, Dad.”

Rick stands back up, and after placing a few cookies on the high chair tables for the babies, he quickly snatches a cookie from RJ’s hand just as the dog was whining and lunging to steal the precariously held treat from his fingers. “No cookies, Ruff. Go on now!” He ushers the dog from the kitchen with a light shuffle of his foot against the dog’s bottom. Head held low, Ruff scoots from the kitchen in the direction of the laundry room where his bed is. 

Dropping into one of the pub chairs in front of the island, begins snacking on the first batch of cookies Judith and RJ had already finished. “So, what’s up, Chonne? You feeling alright?”

“Jude, hand me that loaf pan in the other cabinet please.” I gesture, jutting my jaw towards the cabinet on the other end of the island. Lifting my eyes to my husband’s I see the worry clouding his face. “Nothing, Rick. I’m fine.”

“You thinking over this reality show thing?”

“Reality show?!” Judith and RJ both exclaim, their attention instantly focused on Rick and I, and with loaf pans dropped, and cookie mixing abandoned. 

Neither of us answer at first, Rick just gives me a half grin where only one side of his lips pull up into a smile. He’s amused by the little bit of drama he’s brought with him into the kitchen. Troublemaker.

“Your Uncle Glenn wants us to do a reality show from home. Thinks the Grimes family is good entertainment.”

“Wow! That would be so awesome, Dad!” RJ answers, excitement pushing him to do a little dance around the kitchen

Judith on the other hand is frozen in shock, her eyes bugged, hands in the air. Petrified. “Wait! Like...a for real show? Like about us and stuff? All of us? On TV?”

“All of us. On TV.” Rick nods, reaching for another cookie, but keeping his eyes fixed on me. Probably trying to gauge my response to him announcing this to the kids. I’m not against it. I just haven’t figured out how to feel about Rick’s initial response last night, where he flatly told Glenn no, then did an about face and agreed to think about it. And now? Now he seems on board, actually talking about it in front of the kids. So, yeah...I’m just trying to sort through this.

“Nothing is decided yet, guys. Dad and I are still thinking it over. This might be a little too much for us.” I add, trying to manage expectations. 

“But, like...you’ll actually think it about it right? Not like when you guys said you would think about letting me get a moped after that trip to France, and obviously I never got it, right?”

Snickering as he diverts his face down towards the babies, then back again, Rick smothers his lips with his palm. “Not exactly. We’re thinking this one through for real. But, I’m glad you know the difference, Jude.”

“This could be awesome!”

“It could. This could really be good for your mother’s career so, we’ll give it some thought, and fall in line as needed.”

Rick’s last little bit there, that catches me off guard. “What did you say?” I ask, patting the last of the ground beef down into the pan. 

“I said that we will think about it and what this can do for your career, and decide.”

Washing his hands when he finished scooping the last bit of cookie dough onto the baking sheet, RJ wonders out loud. “Can Ruff be in it too? He’s a Grimes.”

“Yeah, buddy, Ruff is a Grimes too, so that means him as well.” Rick confirms, breaking the remaining cookie up into pieces for the babies who keep trying to just shove the whole thing in their mouths.

Pumping his fists and wiggling as dances over to his dog best friend, RJ is clearly pleased by his father’s answer.

“Gotta say, this is super progressive for you guys. Especially you, Dad. I’m impressed.” Judith declares, her fingers already moving quickly across her smartphone screen, probably to tell Carl and Andre the news. 

Smiling at me, Rick is clearly pleased with himself, seemingly having already decided that this is a choice he’s comfortable with. And maybe more importantly, that somehow this is something that would be good for me. We haven’t even spoken about it yet. Last night after talking to Glenn, we went upstairs to our bedroom and fell asleep almost immediately. And this morning Rick and my father went for a ten-mile bike ride, while my mother and I did some light gardening. It’s a yearly ritual for her and I to clean up the mulch beds, and get the planters ready for the annuals that we will put in on Mother’s Day. 

Rick and my father have been bike riding together for some time now. Ever since my father had a heart attack about five years ago, and made a concentrated effort to slow his work schedule and focus more on his own health. Rick, the helpful son in law that he is, offered to start working out with my father to get him going. They started with running, since that is what Rick does regularly, five miles every other day for the majority of our adult lives. My man is fit. He even ran in the Atlanta Marathon last March. Eventually though, my father being in his 60s started complaining about his knees too much, and suggested they move on to bike riding. My father even surprised Rick with a Shimano aluminum road racing bike for Christmas, that matched his own. They’ve been riding most mornings when it doesn’t rain ever since. 

On the other hand, I have always worked out with a personal trainer. Ajai, is a woman I met when I changed yoga studios, and she got me hooked on pilates and light weight training. As a woman who has had a lot of kids, and continued to do so into her thirties with the surprise that I was pregnant with another set of twins almost two years ago, it was a way for me to reconnect with my body in a healthy way, and rebuild some of the strength I felt I had begun to lose as I worked more, ate less healthy, and found myself pulled in so many different directions. 

The guys did throw out an initial invite to my mother and I to join them in their biking adventures, but honestly, riding around for hours with that little seat abusing my tooshy was not appealing at all. And, not gonna lie, it’s nice to see my dad and Rick having a thing that is just theirs. They’ve always had little bonding moments. Their love of sports being the first, ever since Rick hunkered down at our house when his parents divorced when we were teenagers. Their relationship has grown, matured over the years, even sometimes includes Rick’s father, like when they do an annual fishing trip that lasts a full week. I love how our families have meshed, created one large tribe of people who love and care for each other. 

We may not look like the kind of southern family a lot of people would expect to see, homogeneity clearly not at play here. But the merging of a black family, with an adopted Korean American son, and an old southern white family, and a myriad of shades of grandchildren between them, is exactly what you get when you let love lead the way. And maybe, just maybe that’s why Glenn wants this reality show thing so bad? Is this what also has my husband seemingly on board with something that seems on its face completely opposite to his preference for privacy?

Agreeing with my daughter, I school my features, wiping the shock away, and turn towards the oven to deposit tonight’s dinner. “You’re right, Jude. This is progressive of us. Isn’t it Rick?”

XXXX

“Oh lord, Michonne, I’m just not even sure I can do this ya know? I mean...it’s Star Trek! Do you know how these folks are going to respond to this?”

“Progressive, girl, that is the word of the day I guess.”

“Progressive? Yeah, alright.” Sasha laughs, taking a slow sip from her wine glass, and nodding as she seems to be mulling over the word. “Progressive.”

“Judith mentioned that word when Rick told her and RJ about the reality show thing.”

“Well hey, that is progressive for you guys. Especially Rick. That man is such a conundrum sometimes.”

“What do you mean?”

“Mich, he wears cowboy boots ninety percent of the time. He likes folksy...things.”

“We’re from Georgia.” I deadpan, not really seeing these as odd things.

“He’s a white man from the south, who makes furniture, and he’s married to a dark skin black woman, who’s a rich comic book writer and television producer.” Bucking her eyes, she shakes her head in that way of hers like she can’t believe I’m not picking up what she’s laying down. 

Lounging on my side, across the cushioned bench at the foot of our bed, I feel the warmth of my own glass of wine fluidly easing through my body, relaxing my limbs as I roll my eyes at Sasha and secretly let her words settle into my brain a bit. “Maybe you’re right. And he does love his privacy. Which makes this more odd than progressive. Right?”

Gulping down the last of her wine, Sasha twists her lips, seemingly unpleased to see that she has run out of wine so quickly. We have been doing this as much as we can lately. Having these wine down moments on FaceTime. This isn’t just since the pandemic, this is since her and Abe and their kids are back in Los Angeles as she’s working on a deal that would have her be the first black woman to lead a show in the Star Trek franchise. It’s a huge deal, and the closer they get to finalizing the terms, the more anxiety she seems to have. The wine down moments are as much for me needing a little girl time with my bestie, as they are for her to release some of her fears and concerns about this momentous opportunity for her career. 

“Maybe not odd, Mich. Rick would do anything for you. Speak of the devil, hey, Rick!” Moving her head to the side, as though that will help her see behind me from her phone on the other side of the country. 

Peeking behind me, I witness my husband’s sexy form exiting the bathroom, with a white towel fastened low around his hips. Damn he’s handsome, and even after all of these years, I can’t take my eyes off of him. The little wave and quick hi he sends Sasha’s way, his voice deep and heavy with that southern twang of his turns me on. His dark hair, wet, curled backwards from his face. And as he comes up behind me to sit on the side of the bed, the smell of his ‘Ultimate Man’ Kiehls soap, instantly perfumes the air around him with the scent of lemon and bergamot. It’s all got me eyeing him up, with the thoughts of reality shows, dogs eating cookies, kids with sick parents, haircuts, and Star Trek in my mind’s rearview mirror. 

Not even turning back to face my phone, I mumble to Sasha that I will talk to her tomorrow, end the call, and down the remainder of my wine in the same way that she did. 

Rising from the bench, I don’t bother to pull my short nightgown that has bunched around my thighs down. I like the way the thin, loose material, a bright goldenrod color, drapes around my frame in silky, liquid waves. My breasts sit high, and the length of the skirt is just perfect, stopping right at the tops of my thighs. This little piece is a favorite of Rick’s. I’m glad I chose to wear it tonight.

Standing, I’ve positioned myself between my husband’s widespread thighs as he keeps his eyes on me, having watched my every move from the bench until now. The way he has me in his sights is...erotic. Rick has made no move to touch me. He hasn’t said a word yet. But it is the reverent way those heated blues never lose me. They don’t waiver in their focus. And their focus is me. I suppose that might make some women self-conscious, the way he always seems to be consuming little pieces of me all the time. Like a camera, snapping shots to store them away for later. A way to always have me with him. But I love it. 

“What are you up to, pretty lady?” Rick finally asks, his right hand reaching out to finally touch me. Palm flat, he cups the back of my left thigh, and proceeds to graze, his touch firmly kneading my flesh. 

“Nothing. Just want to talk.”

“Talk? This outfit is not a talking outfit.”

Shrugging my shoulders slowly, palms upturned in the air, as though I’ve been caught, I amend my initial answer, “Well...talk first.” 

“About what?”

“Why did you change your mind about the reality show? You seem...resigned to doing this, but you didn’t at first. Your first inclination was to say no.”

“Yeah.”

“So...why?”

“Sit here.” Rick commands, pulling me down to perch me on his thigh, which is distracting me with thoughts of sex. As usual, it’s the way that he handles me. Positioning me in his arms, with his face right near my breasts. Stroking his fingers along my inner thigh. Rick is all smooth moves, patient. Never rushed, always steady and purposeful, as though he’s exactly where he wants to be, doing exactly what he wants to be doing at that time. Like he has all of the time in the world. And I suppose he does. 

“I shouldn’t have been so quick to say no to begin with. This could be good for you.”

Flitting my finger through the dark, wet curls, shorter than normal, a tad more grey threaded through, I allow my questions to ebb to the surface as he says exactly what I thought he was going to say. “What about you, Rick? I don’t want you to always feel like you have to consider things for me, or for everyone else but you. I know you like your privacy.”

“I do, you’re right about that.”

“And...you are very protective about the kids. You didn’t even usually like people to take their picture on set. I don’t understand this, Rick.”

“Don’t you know that I would do anything for you, Chonne?” With the pinch of his thumb and index finger to my chin, Rick encourages me to tilt my face down to face him. “Anything. If this could do even more for your career, then ok. I’ll work through my discomfort. I can give you more.”

“More? What more is there? You’ve given me everything.”

“Do you ever wonder what your life would have been like if you hadn’t torn up those divorce papers, Chonne? If you had chosen that other guy instead of me? Hm?”

Shocked at where this going, I jerk back, completely caught off guard, and worried about why Rick would be asking that question right now. “No! Never! I have never given it another thought. I wouldn’t change a thing.”

“I do. Beat myself up about it sometimes. Did I keep you from some destiny where you’re married to this guy who ultimately become this famous fake king? Would you and him have been a better famous pair than you and some white guy who makes furniture?”

Jarred, floored by what he’s saying, my tongue feels thick. Heavy in my mouth to the point that I can barely call up the power to refute his claims. But I do. I find the control over my lapsed faculties, because what the hell? 

“No, Rick. NO! There is no destiny for me that doesn’t include you. You know that. We may have lost our way for a while, but look where we ended up. The universe put us right back where we belonged.”

“I get that, Chonne. I do. If we are destined to be together then I’m going to do everything I can to make sure you get what you deserve. That we get what we deserve. We’re gonna do this reality thing, and hell, if I gotta play my part then I play my part.”

“I hate the way that sounds, Rick. Like I’m the star and you’re the guy on the side. You’re not the guy on the side. Today I went and read through some of those comments for myself. You’re the guy the ladies love. He’s so handsome. He’s such a good dad. That’s what they say about you. Those women aren’t worried about me, or my comics, or my show. They came to ogle my sexy, smart husband. This show is about you, and the kids, as much as it is about me. Probably more so. This is for all of us.”

“Yeah?” Rick asks, the tension from his body seeming to fall away some as he raises his eyes to me from where they had drifted to stare off into space. The blink of his long spiky lashes, dusting with just a kiss across the tops of his cheeks, makes it impossible for me not to kiss along the scant few freckles there and across the bridge of his angular nose. 

“Oh yeah. Listen, they didn’t offer me the show. They offered it to us. The Grimes Family. That starts with you and me, Rick. Not some busted ass guy who thinks he’s the king of animals.” Inching to the floor, I situate myself on my knees in front of Rick. “They want Michonne and Rick.” I proclaim, knowing that this will always be a sore spot for him, and for me as well. That blip of time that we weren’t together haunting us with what ifs. 

Nothing could have illustrated the awkwardness of the fallout from that time more than the day we went to drop-off RJ to his first day of kindergarten and found that Lori was a teacher at his school. I don’t know if awkward is even a good enough description of how...odd that was. Standing in the little classroom chatting with his new teacher, while Rick helped RJ put his things in his cubby, watching Lori walk in from the adjoining classroom next door was surreal. A bad dream really. One that we could not wake up from. 

I saw her and she saw me before Rick came from behind the cubbys with RJ, and immediately she and I locked eyes. I hadn’t seen her in nearly six years, my memory traveling back to that day out at the farm, but I could tell that Lori looked the same. She remained rail thin. Long dark hair that fell in waves over her shoulders and nearly to her waist. In a pair of khaki pants, and a billowy flower printed blouse, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of something...something dark come over me. Jealousy. 

This was the woman who had dated Rick for years. Had taken my place while we were separated. Had always somehow found a way to be in his life, and here she was again, the universe cruelly bringing her and all of the negative memories she was a part of right back to me. 

She spoke first, her face lighting as though she was genuinely happy to see me. As though years of acrimony and jealousy didn’t litter the path between us. Smiling, all of that seemed forgotten in the bouncy perk of her steps that brought her to the side of RJ’s teacher. It didn’t stop there, the strangeness of her sunny disposition towards me. The way she seemingly forgot that the last time we saw each other she was trying her very best to lay a false claim to my husband. I endured it though, allowed her to pretend in the falseness of her cordial words and tone that we were old acquaintances, friends even. Especially when she exclaimed how excited she was when she saw the roster of new kindergartners to the prestigious private school, that a Richard Joshua Grimes was enrolled, and that it simply couldn’t be just her dumb luck that it might be the son of her favorite Grimes. Her. Favorite. Grimes.

As soon as the words left her mouth, I could feel my cool begin to slip. The grip I had on my temper fighting to the surface. Right as I was about to say something, anything that would help the fuzzy anger clouding my brain, the green monster riding my back telling me to slap her for daring to call my husband her favorite anything...he was there. By my side. His hand on the small of my back, reassuringly rubbing circles, his thumb applying just a hint of pressure to the dip of my spine where it had found its way under my shirt. It was that small thing, that very simple touch, the connection of his flesh touching mine that brought my discomfort back down to earth. Followed by a kiss to my cheek, immediately the fury in my brain dissipated, the sun of his love pushing those clouds away. And with a quick hi to Lori. A short, polite but distanced, nice to see you. And the declaration I was most fond of, Rick’s proclamation that he and his most favorite Grimes needed to get down the hall to see the other kids’ teachers, and Rick set my world straight again. 

Ashen is the only way I can think to characterize the pallor of Lori’s skin, quickly falling short of the sunny shade it held when she set her gaze on Rick. Sensing my discomfort, he quickly put that disingenuous light out in her eyes, and replaced it with reality. Whatever had once lived between them, was the past. This, me, our little precocious boy standing between us, as well as the three other children brandishing that Grimes moniker down the hall, are the present, and the future. 

Right now, it’s that same push and pull for us. That same ebb and flow that I’m sure all long-term relationships with skeletons have to bear. Nothing is perfect. No one is perfect. Just because something is in the past doesn’t mean it doesn’t still hurt, or resurface and recall all manner of things to be remembered, hoped to be forgotten. 

Just because we traversed that journey successfully doesn’t mean our relationship doesn’t still bear the scars of it, and Rick recognized that when we saw Lori at RJ’s school. Her standing there smugly attempting to burrow herself as a wedge in our lives. I see that now as Rick considers deviating from everything that is inherent to who he is, private, protective, to do something for me, for us, possibly because he sees it as a way to measure up to some guy who never, ever could have taken his place. Ezekiel was a distraction. But he was never destined to be a prize. I got the real prize. And he’s sitting in front of me right now, the epitome of everything I’ve ever wanted. 

Reaching for the edges of his towel, I begin to unwrap my gift, eager to get to the prize beneath the packaging. Of course, he’s beautiful. Life has been good to Rick Grimes, blessing him with only the best parts of aging. Little lines radiating from the corners of his eyes, only serving to make his mature looks more strikingly handsome. All of the work he does with his hands, running, biking, has filled his body out with firm muscles, warm and hard beneath my fingers that dance a path over the peaks and valleys, the long lines and cuts of him. My digits leave behind a series of goosebumps and a flushing blush beneath the tufts of dark hair and cream-colored skin. My mouth waters in anticipation, but I can’t help but also want to measure my steps. To devour my treat in pieces instead of one big voracious swallow. 

All of my senses are engaged, locked into his every response. Sucking in a deep breath, his chest bulks and rises, drawing my gaze to his powerful pecs. Rick gulps with each swirl of my index finger around his nipple, each crawl of its advance across his clavicle and up to round his neck, pulling him down to my lips. Soft and pink, I can’t stop the slight chuckle I release against his mouth as I recall one of the comments on one of the behind the scenes YouTube videos where I’m talking about my inspiration for the character of Randy. Of course, I finally fessed up in the video that Rick is my Randy, and there were tons of comments about that. But one stuck out to me more than the others, one that mentioned that Randy doesn’t have Rick’s lips and how much of a shame it was that viewers of the show never got to watch pretty lips like Rick’s for nine seasons. Interesting enough, that was the beginning of a sub-set of comments discussing in more detail than I would have thought possible, why a white man like Rick had such beautiful, sexy lips. 

Kissing those lips right now, I have to agree with those commenters. My husband does have beautiful, sexy lips. Lips that I have known the pleasure of most of my life. That have delivered so much pleasure that I wish I could go back to that YouTube video and confirm that yes, it is a shame the audience didn’t get a chance to look at my handsome husband’s perfect lips for nine seasons. 

“Why are you laughing?” Rick asks, his breath sweet with the spearmint flavor of our toothpaste, and dipping his eyebrows, but never removing his lips from mine. 

“Because all of those YouTube commenters are right. You are a snack.”

Chuckling, the rumble of it, deep and heavy in his chest, Rick shakes his head as though he’s confused by the phrase.

I simply nod, my hormones raging through me. I don’t continue to kiss him though, I just lower my head between his legs and begin a slow descent of my mouth over the hard, thick length of my husband’s cock. 

“Oh shitttttttt!” Rick fires off, excitement and surprise jutting his hips off the bed, and pushing his cock further into my mouth. I don’t care how long I’ve been with this man, nothing prepares me for the size of him. It’s like every time he stretches the corners of my mouth with his girth, and immediately tickles the back of my throat with his length, I’m pleasantly surprised. Relaxing my tongue and my gag reflex is always the remedy for taking in a mouthful of Rick, and because I can never make it to the base of him, I form a tunnel with both of my hands and begin a slow twist of his hard flesh, the fibers of his dark pubic hairs tickling my palms. 

“Mmmmm...” I hum, vibrating my mouth around him as I find my groove. Up and down, up and down. Twirling my tongue over the crown to punctuate the pulling motion, sucking in my jaws to increase the pressure. 

Panting, growling, Rick is watching me, his stare focusing on the back and forth of my mouth. The wrap of my lips around him. He praises each suck with dirty words, commanding me to take more of him. Encouraging me to swallow as much of his dick as I can. Fisting my locs in his fist to ever so gently guide my wet consumption of the thick, veiny column until finally, with a stinging pull he removes me from him, and replaces his dick with his mouth. Tasting himself on my lips and tongue. 

Rick loves to kiss. He loves my lips probably as much as I love his, maybe even more. So, I know it drives him crazy when I suck his cock. But he also loves to feel my lips on his. Biting, sucking, licking them. I’ve asked Rick more than once if he is a lips man, and his response every time is that he’s a Michonne man. Not gonna lie, this man pays homage to every inch of my body, but there is something in the way he kisses me. Toying at the corners of my smile with his tongue. Nibbling my bottom lip. Thrusting his tongue into my mouth to tangle with and caress my tongue with his. This man could make me cum just from kissing me, and right now I’m halfway there and he’s barely touched me yet. 

But this isn’t about me I remember, this was supposed to be about me going down on him. Breathless, the very air that I breathe is collateral damage to Rick’s passionate theft. Squirming, I am hardly able to pull away from him and refocus myself. Blinking, tiny moans escape, as I place my hands on Rick’s hairy thighs, giving myself a brief respite to gather my wits about me.

Rick leans into me, not willing to release my lips from his, and he kisses me again. Softer this time. Less dominant and consuming. More coaxing and enticing, disarming my faculties with one hand insistent against my pussy, his thumb on my clit, the rest of the fingers plunging inside. God knows I could live in this moment forever. A frozen speck of time where my husband’s lips are fastened to mine. His other large hand massaging through the ropy tufts of my locs, encouraging me to stay close to him. Remain merged together as one breathing being. One beating heart.

Eventually he releases me, content with knowledge of the fat droplets of cum that inch in slippery streams from my core, sticky and damp between the press of my thighs. I’ve cum so much the apex of my womanhood, and Rick’s hand, are covered in my essence. My body is limp and pliant in his hold, as I try to get my brain back online. Removing his hand from inside of me, Rick raises it to his mouth and begins to lick each finger, one by one, savoring the taste of me, growling with each sample. 

“Delicious, babe. Absolutely, delicious.” He adds, his voice husky, raw, rasping over his vocal cords. “Taste.” Offering me his fingers, he inserts them one by one into my waiting mouth, and as he does, each one sets off an aftershock of erotic spasms that tighten and release my form in bursts of pleasure. “Good girl.” Rick praises, his eyelids lowered over his beautiful blue eyes, narrowing them into focused slits. Even has he commends me for following his guidance, I can see the lust that’s cresting, waiting, anticipating his own release. Biting at his bottom lip, he kisses me one last time, then watches as I pull away from his kiss. Fisting himself, wrapping his large hand firmly around that beautiful pillar of thick, veiny, flesh, he pushes it towards my lips. Rubbing the cap along the seam of my full pout, back and forth, I surge forward and fill my mouth once again with his cock. 

It doesn’t take long for Rick to cum after that, jetting into my mouth with warm, ropy spurts that I immediately swallow down, almost choking on the fullness. 

Pulling me up from my knees, Rick places me on his lap facing him, situating my legs on either side of his hips. Dropping to his back, he takes me with him, rolling us to our sides, and hugging me into his body. Naturally, I find my place in his arms, nestling into the cozy space beneath his chin, against his hard chest, that was made just for me. 

Before I know it, the lulling cadence of our matched breathing has dragged Rick deeply under the sway of the sandman. Slumberous snores drift from his lips as he throws his leg over mine, locking me to him in an all too familiar way, and even the simplicity of that move that marks the way we have slept together for over twenty years, makes me love him even more. 

As tired as I am, I can’t find the quiet of sleep as easily as Rick does. Slowly, so as not to wake him, I wriggle free of his tight hold, even against his sleepy insistence that I stay. Wrapping myself in my robe, I creep out of the room, trying not to disturb Rick more than I already have as he wrestles with the covers now, seeking a new comfortable position without me beneath him. 

Shutting the door softly behind me, I stop in each of the subsequent bedrooms I encounter down the long hallway, checking on the kids. Covering RJ back up, as he’s half hanging on the bed, half off, trying his very best, even while he’s asleep, to ensure there is enough room for Ruff. Turning to the cribs, the twins are sleeping well, round bellies so full, even Boden who never sleeps without a pacifier, has allowed it to drop from his mouth. 

Exiting their room, I head into Carl and Andre’s room through the Jack and Jill bathroom they share with the younger boys. As usual the tight space is somewhat musty with the musk of young men, and of course it’s a mess, reminding me of when this used to be Rick’s bedroom, and clothes and shoes, things, littered the floors and chaos ruled then as well. While Andre is sound asleep on his stomach, his face mushed into his pillow, Carl still has his AirPods tucked into his ears, and facing him on the pillow is his phone, with FaceTime still glowing with who I assume is Cindy on the other end. I pluck each of the white buds from his ears, and grab the phone from his loose clutches, placing it on the charging pad on his nightstand. I’m going to have to talk to him about this tomorrow. 

Tiptoeing from the turbulent disorganization, I head across the hall to Judith’s room, greeted with the sweet smell of vanilla and candy, completely changing my mood. Judith’s room is organized and orderly. Her shelves of pictures and trophies all in a pre-ordained spot. Books all face the same direction, in alphabetical order. In the center of all of this precise tidiness is my daughter, her frame somewhat illuminated by the twinkling curtain of what she calls fairy lights, dangling from the wall behind her headboard. Her bonnet has somehow made its way to the foot of the bed, and as such her voluminous length of tight curls halos her head, almost completely covering her dainty features. I can just about make out her eyes that flutter and dance behind her eyelids. She must be having one hell of a dream.

Making my way downstairs and into the kitchen, I’m almost startled out of my skin when I find Rick there, his blue robed form glowing from the light of the refrigerator.

“Rick! Oh my god you scared me to death!”

“Why? Who else would be down here but me?” he asks, now ducking his head behind the door to reach for whatever he was searching for.

“How did you beat me downstairs? You were knocked out when I left our room.”

“You know I can’t sleep without you. Came down to make myself a sandwich. You were in the babies’ room when I walked by.”

“Oh.” I mumble, my hand to my chest as though I’m clutching my imaginary pearls, but instead I’m just trying to stop my heart from beating too wildly. 

“You want a sandwich too?”

“No. Do we still have some of those Cotton Candy grapes left, or did the kids eat them all?”

“Nah, here’s a few left.” Rick answers, already turning towards the sink with the last bunch in his hand. “Let me clean these off for you.”

While I watch Rick go through the movements of cleaning the grapes, I begin making a sandwich for him. Wordlessly we each go about the business of preparing a snack for the other, meeting each other’s needs in tandem, almost simultaneously falling into a routine we have been practicing since I was five years old. 

“Here you go, sweetheart.” Placing the bowl of grapes in front of where I’m seated at the island, I see that Rick has washed and already plucked each sweet globe from its stem, ensuring they are just how I like them and ready for my consumption. As he situates himself on the stool next to me, he grabs the sandwich that I have cut in halves, into his meaty hands, and takes a large bite. Rick doesn’t bother to even check to see what’s on the sandwich, certain that I have made it just the way he would like it. And I did. Of course, I did. Smoked turkey and provolone, on rye, with mayo, spicy brown mustard, pickles, and spinach. 

Laying my head on his shoulder, I pop a few of the plump grapes into my mouth and allow the juice to sweeten my tongue. 

“Why can’t you sleep?” Rick’s voice mutters around his mouthful of sandwich. 

“Thinking about this reality show thing.”

“It’s a good idea, Chonne. And...” stopping to take a long slow gulp from the bottle of beer he had already popped the cap on, he lets go a low rumbling burp that gains him a playful swat from me to his arm as we both laugh, then continues. “It’s a good idea. It is. And it might be fun for all of us. Hell, Carl’s always saying he wants to act anyway. Maybe this would be a good start for him.”

“You think so?”

“I don’t know. Might be fun for me too.”

Quirking an eyebrow in surprise, I’m almost speechless at his admission. “For you?” 

“Who knows.” Rick shrugs, gulping down the last of his sandwich that barely lasted more than four large bites. Offering me a sip from his beer bottle, he dusts the sandwich crumbs from his fingers on to the napkin I placed next to his plate. “I might not mind it. Never know till I try.”

“I’m sure the women will like getting a little of that Grimes charm.” I tease, bumping his shoulder with mine. “You know women love you.”

“Long as you know you’re the only woman I love, I’m fine with that.” Rick declares, turning to face me, his eyes steady on mine. The promise in those blues is so clear and honest I can feel myself growing warm with the emotion in his vow, and I can’t help it. I can see our years past, and our future together in his handsome face. A face that is just rugged enough to keep from being too pretty. One that, while disarming in its beauty, at least to me, hides nothing. Rick’s love, his feelings, have always lived right there, always so obvious. It’s why I love him more than I can even express in words, though I kiss him and whisper my own vow to him into the warmth of his skin. It’s why I know that he’s not just making this choice for us to pursue this opportunity for my benefit, but for his own as well. Rick knows I find my peace with him too, he’s my port in life’s storm. Because of that, because of my propensity to want to share every good thing in my life with him, he’s allowing even this. This often crazy and intrusive world of showbiz. He’s accepting this gift that brings to him the challenge of doing something outside of his comfort zone. It comes with challenges, I think we both recognize that, but if we had ever been afraid of challenges we wouldn’t be where we are now. 

As he leads me up the stairs, back to the sanctuary of our bedroom, my mind goes back to Glenn’s words and I know that we are doing the right thing. This reality show can be more than just a fun little way for us to blow off steam. It’s also an opportunity to invite the world in and show them that people like us exist. Families like ours, a tapestry of cultures and colors, exist. We can show the world our kind of family and our kind of love. How can that be a bad thing?


End file.
